Everything Changes

Everything Changes


The rush of existence, the crush of the game
Everything changes, it’s always the same

Open the basket, dig deep inside
Gorge on potatoes, boiled, mashed, and fried

Scrub up the carrots, dice up the swede
Add in the garlic, and that’s all you need

Wait for the winter, remember the snow
Laugh in the sunshine, relax in its glow

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Some unedited odds and ends

Works in Progress

The Shop

there’s a shop up in Albany Road
– a supermarket actually
it’s always rammed
trolleys jammed
students, suits and shirkers
academics, social workers
it’s too much for me
I’d rather be
in bed
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A visit to Margam steelworks

A Visit to Margam Steelworks

Roads meandering
Imposing structures
Imposing structure
Meandering roads
Giant Nostrils
Disgorging Clouds
Winds disturbing
Black noxious dust
Railway tracks
Slow-down bumps
Black puddles
Yellow jacks
Fat flies in the portacabin office
cheeky flies
flies with confident looks
licking their feet on
the mayonnaise roll
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first words

he returns to his work
he takes his tool
(no – not that kind, you dirty-minded bugger)
he makes the marks
and starts to pare
more gently than before
softer than before
slower than before
the shape will come
it will be
what it’s meant to be
and he will be
what he is
because the rest
doesn’t matter

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On a broken lighter

A series of poems (circa 1999)

On a Broken, Worn Out, Cheap, Plastic, Cigarette Lighter.
( i )
Oil processed, metal mined,
Gas released, so refined;
Cog turning, flint burning;
Ergonomically designed.
( ii )
reflections on a cigarette lighter:
distorted – not much.
 ( iii )
Shall I compare it to a source of light?
Or shall I simply call it flaming junk?
When it was new it struck and lit all right.
But now it’s just a useless, lifeless hunk.
Of plastic, metal and of gas composed,
A man made thing to do the job of fire.
It might be clever if I juxtaposed,
The foundry’s rush and a heavenly choir.
Singing its song it lit up many nights,
But now it’s gone and ever will reside,
On the council tip with the other shite.
Silting the globe, why did it have to die?
Do not believe its life has been in vain,
‘Cos from the dump it will rise once again.
 ( iv )
The thing is like a stick of light.
It is a bite of frost.
Its lion’s roar, its breath so bright,
A broken beam, it’s lost.
( v )
Fruit of mans’ hand,
We don’t understand,
How much you demand.
Continue reading

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Twin Towers

Twin Towers

I was wounded first –
the blow caught me in the neck.
I couldn’t breathe,
then –
with a whoosh of fire,
my mouth opened
and huge clouds of smoke fled out.
I didn’t realise I had such energy,
such love.
I smiled when I knew I was dying;
I always said I would go first.
You watched as I choked, incredulously,
not wanting to believe
in my mortality.
My belly shook, I retched and coughed,
but your strength,
the power of your gaze,
began to mend.
Then –
you were smacked in the chest;
a direct hit to your heart,
and you shuddered
but you didn’t scream;
there was no sound
That’s when I caught your eye;
that’s when I knew
we were both going to die.
In that silent lightless time
I watched, still wounded,
still breathing burning breath,
then –
you deflated with a groan
that shook the world.

I stood, shocked, alone in emptiness
that spread like nothing
through the universe.
With no light left, I crumbled too;
we sighed together, merged –
in mounds of dirt.
I knew that love can never die
not even then, not in that place
where the world was witness
to our hurt.

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Stopping Stone

 Here we have a stopping stone
a place to pause and be alone
Take it in your hand and stare
at nothing in particular
Rub it clean and roll it round
let it rest upon the ground
Chuck it, kick it, lob it high
watch it dropping from the sky
Let it rest, be on your way
thank it humbly for today
Tomorrow someone else will pause
and have their day, and think of yours.

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Everyone should have a cat,
if not their own a borrowed one.
The cat will sit and clean its fur,
wiggle its claws inside its ear,
stare at you from time to time,
sneer at your silly rhyme.


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Where is your song

A poem from a few years back – playing with audio recordings



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Forty years is a long time

forty years ago I would have called him an old man
if I had noticed him at all
he would have slippered past me in the corridor
and smelled of pee
I would have held my breath
for a step or two
he’s me

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On a hard day

stresses and strains
aches and pains
bruises and sprains
again again

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I am the Moon

I am the moon. I have always been the moon. I will always be the moon. My heart beats with cool light. I move my thoughts over the blue emptiness. I vibrate with blue emotion.

There is no thing except the cool blue. There is no place except the cool blue. There is only the cool blue.

I am the moon. I do not feel. I do not see. I do not hear. I am the moon.

There is no thing. Nothing. I am the moon.

I am the blue moon. I am alone.

“Did you say something?”
“Did you say something?”
“Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
“Who am I?”
“Who am I?”

“I am the moon.”
“I am the moon.”

I am the blue moon.
I am alone.


“The moon looks blue tonight.”
“No it doesn’t, it is white. The sky is blue”
“The sky has no colour. The moon has no colour”
“It’s the light from the sun. It has no light itself.”

“It’s late. It’s cold.”
“The moon affects the sea.”
“And me.”


“Take my hand, it’s dark.”
“Your hand is cold.”
“Warm enough. You are not alone.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”


“It’s a beautiful night.”
“A beautiful sight.”
“A beautiful light.”

“Let’s go home.”

“Goodnight moon.”
“Goodnight moon.”

“Take my hand.”

“I love you.”
“I love you.”

“Let’s go home.”

“You are with me now.”


I am the moon. I am the blue moon. I am alone.

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More ebooks

The Words in Me and The Walker have now been published as ebooks on the smashwords site and they are being offered for free until Saturday.


The Words in me ebook

The Walker ebook


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Time is a triangle

Back, back, back
A slow awakening
A rude boy is born
He is
An old man
He has lifelong
He can see
the reality
in between
And ends
and ends
Go again
He waits
and he hopes
still . . . . . . .
still . . . . . . .
Go, Go, Go
An old man
vision blurred
and the connection
the coruscating thread
the light
the love
the white-out
Time is a Triangle.

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