Peace Puzzle

little pieces of peace
flung around the world like confetti
they fall in the most unlikely of places
and sometimes never fall at all
so what can we do to even the fall
to spread the little pieces more evenly
that my friends is the answer to find
the one and only solution

and to paraphrase Robert Louis Stevenson:

The world is so full of wonderful things
So why are we not all as happy as kings?



The Lizard Queen

in the compost loo
amongst the poo
shone a shiny thing
an engagement ring
but how it got there
was the strangest affair
for I had swallowed it whole
to save my soul
from the woman of my dreams
who was not what she seemed
once she’d peeled off her skin
to reveal the lizard within
a vengeful coquette
with a strange silhouette
she slithered away
in the cold dying day

a conversation with a lost friend

what you read
and what you hear
is not always true
or not always clear

what you think
and what you learn
is seldom bought
or seldom earned

what you want
and what you see
is not all of you
or not all of me

what we shared
and at what cost
is not our fault
has not been lost


dedicated to those who choose abuse
over forgiveness
who choose misrepresentation
over rational thought
who choose to rant and rave
with closed ears and eyes
in bullying cliques
and who find themselves adrift without hope
and without friends
with ever-more hardened hearts
and blinkered souls.


A Conversation with Sand and Wind

hunkered down
in Gower dunes
on a stepping stile
of wind-blown wood
we sat
either / side
this wire fence
eating soup
and sandwiches
and remnants
of Christmas cake
with flying sand particles
that tinkled
tiny whispers
on our Gortex backs
from last year
to this year
or so it seemed



we kissed

we kissed in the red phone box
until our teenage lips were sore
and in your mother’s unmade bed
her hippy mattress on the floor

we kissed in the silent church yard
amongst the souls who died at war
and holding hands at nightfall
by these glowing moonlit shores

we kissed in the uncut wheat field
under golden rays outdoors
and at the party of a mutual friend
we yearned for something more

we kissed in the poetry book section
of our favourite secondhand store
and there we found the three words
we had dared not speak before

we kissed in the same red phone box
until our adult lips were almost sore
and in this unmade marriage bed
our trendy futon on the floor




Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe

Mother made quite a fuss
Police probed, investigated us
But it was all fun, artistic fake
Making money for god’s sake

Maybe McLaren was my Manet
A cash from chaos punk cliché
My naked flesh filled the screen
Underage, declared obscene

I didn’t mind playing Victorine
Being part of his money machine
She was later the whore Olympia
And like me created mild hysteria

From a generation with no future
I drew strength from this venture
But now my Manet has moved on
Anarchic in his musical denouement

Would I change any of this?
Regret I hadn’t covered my tits?
Oh god no! Just look at that stare
I’m now a fucking millionaire.


(photo: Bow Wow Wow album cover 1981)


Cozy Cosy

Cozy in your clothes
Cosy in your skin
Cozy with the one you love
Cosy deep within

I’m cozy that you’re cosy
Cozy with me there
Cosy when I’m spoiling you
Cozy getting in your hair

I’m cosy when we’re cozy
Cosy in your arms
Cozy when you lay with me
and share your wicked charms


InstaPoem – a silent contemplative walk through a Welsh village landscape.

I gallop like a horse
an odd sight I will admit
but the winter sun has warmed my spiritsPicMonkey Collage1past teasel heads and the old gate post
blue sky light
red dogwood stems all of a tangle
PicMonkey Collage2the winter garden rests
five tall poplars wear ivy leggings
green arrows point me south by southeast
PicMonkey Collage3to copper islands mapped out in lichens
where fungi sprouts from torn silage bail holesPicMonkey Collage4I come across a sheep stuck in wire fencing
released and thankful it contemplates me
but an empty belly needs fillingPicMonkey Collage5by the road some broken pink rubble
and graffiti in a bus shelter
taking care on the steep descent to the village below
PicMonkey Collage6
there is an upturned table in a front garden which makes for a sorry sight
as is this home wind power system
but the guardian at the door sits proud and alert
PicMonkey Collage7
some other words catch in my mane like drops of dew
Doombar and Pint
Grit and Salt
Sunday and Carvery
PicMonkey Collage8
the crossing by the school not in use
I wave to Santa waiting patiently down an alley
run my finger over carved inscriptions on tarred poles
PicMonkey Collage9
a familiar shadow greets me on the memorial
as my imaginary horse gallops off down the old railway tracks
frightened I think of the coming water jump
PicMonkey Collage10
and on to this field for budding heroes
or a blackbird cautiously walking the line
rolling without steam
PicMonkey Collage11
the people of the world communicate their anger and frustration
with love it seems
on public surfaces
PicMonkey Collage12
I hear the silent crack of a branch breaking in a storm
water flowing under an arch of trees
I open the gate here -> but the directions are just a joke
PicMonkey Collage13
here the dead miners sleep under coal black headstones
their old terrace houses have coal bunkers and outside toilets
my illusions momentarily shattered for no reason
PicMonkey Collage14
tractor tracks cross my narrow path
what I would give to unpadlock these blue doors and rummage inside
a red gate beckons its owner
PicMonkey Collage15
no more will the bell toll for the village
expanding red foam fungus escapes from a builder’s yard mess
carry me across the crumbling river bridge before we both break with age
PicMonkey Collage16
peep as we go through verdigris rust holes
down railway line supports
and on festive peeling paint colours
PicMonkey Collage17
galloping now the last stretch
a pleasant view some might think
like this starling in high wire silhouette
I come home to a sheepish welcome party



Hey Pesto!

crushing garlic on my brand new
fairly traded organic bamboo chopping board
the pungent aroma fills the air
sticky juice oozes from plump cloves
thin papery outer layers stick to my fingers
always a slightly laborious process
prepping garlic but

in the background soothing New Age sounds
a reflection of peasant life in Tibet or Peru
or somewhere cloaked in colourful robes
the tick of the retro rail station clock
like a heartbeat metronome
meditating on the moment
music to crush garlic by

music to watch birds fly
a late summer bee buzzes past the window
reminds me of those dreadful drone things
they fly them for practice over our house
not like the winged visitors gorging
on sunflowers and peanuts
hung from the ancient apple tree

they ask for nothing
take only my appreciation in return
take another bulb of garlic from the pot
the terracotta pot gifted me by Monica
Portuguese and oh so very good looking
she was also Catholic and always off-limits
despite those dark eyes

they were too deep for me
swallowed me whole every time she looked my way
she gave what she thought was good advice
but not what I ever wanted to hear
never the words that would invite me
to her bedroom door
into her bed

into her arms
and now when I crush garlic
I think of Monica and what became of her
I scoop it into the food processor
add pine nuts and parmesan
basil and the oil from extra virgins
press thumb on brushed steel button

and gaze out the window
a sparrow hits the glass and falls to the ground
the Buddhist monks and llama farmers
drowned out by the machine’s whizz and whir
I watch the sparrow stagger about the patio
like an old drunk recovering his composure
lessons learnt in flight dynamics

window collision avoidance
pesto making with crushed garlic
drones that crash into hillsides
Portuguese Monica and what became of her
I dip my finger into the flavourful sauce
smile at my reflection
and taste the perfection of now