two children

two children run hand in hand
upon a scrap of council land
their podgy parents sit and smoke
post social media video jokes

at the touch of a screen the lives of those
admired, despised and some they know

yes, they love their smartphones
they’ve made the toy strewn rough cut grass zone
their domain, their terraced castle grounds
where the little rascals babble with laughter

an old man watches on from his window
he’s the ‘paedo’ that was always a weirdo

who now never gets to go out
in fear of the shouts and taunts from the louts
whose two children run hand in hand
upon the scrap of council land

that separates them from the busy road
where the quarry lorries unload

a toxic cargo of asthma inducing invisible snow
to blight the already blighted glow
of futures held in the hands of others
parents, weirdos, councils, climate changers

the big wheeler dealers that keep things turning
the sun might be shining today, but tomorrow

the two children will reap the GMO hay fever
of meadows sown but heatwaves razed
yet, by heck, let us not get carried away!
let’s sit back and enjoy the two children play

hand in hand, laughing, running
as all children would no doubt want to do

slide away

the past is now a million years away
falling faster than a billion tears today
but that’s okay I can let it all slide away
a million billion words can only mean
. . . there’s really nothing left to say
but now it all comes flooding back to me
in blues and blacks and purple greys
the bruises of a child who went astray
his love a fading summer golden ray
. . . there’s really nothing left to say
the future will likely come back to stay
haunting for each millisecond of the day
the present binding me in clods of clay
. . . there’s really nothing left to say



[ . . . . . ]

existing within my own self-made
i write words exhumed from my own
a lexicon of schisms rent by split
borderline insecurities mellowed by melancholy
of the highest orders that take no prisoners excepting
my own [self-doubts . . .]

my narrative is a river that flows from past to present
that somehow drifts me towards my future
through rapids and over falls
i know not where that river runs
or to what future it takes me
only time will tell if i make it there in one piece

[ . . . . . ]

. . . . . . . . Pleasant Valley . . . .

[the sign read]



we strolled along the level path
the smell of chamomile wafting
from beneath our feet
honeysuckle scent spraying
at nostril level
the precision dappled light
playing with our shadows

hey, how are you today?
the young man with the perfect tan
as he jogged on by


over a bottle green hedge
a plastic pig lounged on a sun chair
beside it a cow and a caravan
and sounds of the countryside
unmistakably percolating above
the babbling of a brook
and the breezy sigh of fake trees

hi there, lovely day today!
the young girl with the perfect teeth
as she waved us by

[further on]

the whoosh of a parakeet
startled us but made us smile
as it ziplined across our eyeline
well this is nice
I said to my wife
you can’t even see any wires
and the AI’s are friendly too

woof woof
the puppy with the wagging tail
as it brushed gently past our legs

[the sign read]



The Day After

we crowded round the party table
with neon halos in our hair
our bare feet on the kitchen floor
bread and wine to share
you said that one of us was bad
and in the morning we would see
how careless words cause chaos
our futures not so free

another poem

there’s a patch of sunlight on the hill
it’s not too far away
the white blades on the new windmill
are slicing up my day

every minute they go round and round
morning, noon and night
I stand in hope and wait spellbound
for a future shiny bright

victims of fashion

the fashion trend of skinny jeans
makes no sense for overweight teens

except perhaps to mock and remind
what fun our youth have left behind

and now their futures can be seen
through portals of smartphone screens

a flock of sheep following fake dreams
everything today is what it seems

the party’s over, the songs all sung
a bitter taste to coat the tongue

with debt, pollution, global warming
is it time for them to dress in mourning?


inspired by ‘Generation Gap, Next…’ by Jane Bozian