Published Poems


French Fields.


Home keys not pressed


Crosses trace the contours


A chorus of silenced


string across the wind.


By the shed, a Japanese Maple burns
over brown seeded heads of summer plants,
where your shit lies,

damp with the sheen of dawn.

You strained here,
pink sphincter stretched white

over weak legs.

You pushed the brown head
onto fallen leaves with a leech of blood

and looked for me.

There’s a print of your paw near the back door,
and by the shed, where maple leaves flame red,
the ridged twist of your bowel

on faecal clay.


A carpenter crafted this.

Bevelled grains with subtle stains
that change the texture.

Her mouth is whittled from willow;
thin lips lapped by the wind.

Her hair is styled mahogany;
a forest of dark grained Swietenia.

Her skin is oiled  olive wood
carved in Byzantine Bethlehem.

Her eyes are of the hazel,
wand wise.

In the bright lit room she sat,
pillow propped,

lolling to the left,
starch white waiting.

I closed the door.

With each drag the man’s sleeve shifts
to show dark skin, pitted with deep
white scars; bowls of cooled craters hot
with old pain. I think of Helen.

She had skin like silk, softly tanned
by the summer of ’76
with fine, fair hairs that melted first,
curling crisp in the glowing heat .

I ask the interpreter about the scars.

“Self inflicted”. She said.
“It’s not uncommon, the pain blinds,
briefly, the mind’s eye.”

It started with a pound note, a match
and a crumpled cigarette .
I didn’t smoke so her fag felt awkward
between my finger and thumb.

It was her idea. The trick was to wrap the note
around her slender wrist,
drag on the fag
and burn a hole before she fainted.

‘He says they made him watch her die.
Held her high on a bayonet.
Passing her one to the other
Laughing, laughing, laughing, laughing.”

I sit across the table from
a brown skinned scarred man,
who reminds me of the girl
I’ve not tortured for thirty years.

Meg Green’s Freight

Meg Green’s bed trembles
with the weight of passing freight.
From her window sweet chestnut trees
rise above the embankment.
Fish-slice leaves, gloss green
preen themselves in summer;
concealing from sight
the muffled passage of trains.

In winter, after the leaves have left
their litter on her neat cut council lawn,
she can see again.
On the edge of her bed in the dark
she looks through strong branches
fake tanned by orange lights.

She waits for filmstrip trains to
trail negative framed faces,
some seen before;
and gasps a smile
at the passing profile.

As the lights of the last passenger train
tunnel into the night;
Meg Green stretches her aching back,
slips off her slippers,
and curtains the dark.


I know about stars.
They’re far away
have nocturnal habits
and hide from the day,

and when I lie
hair rasping a pillow of sand
fingers sieving cool grains,
shrinking clumps in each hand,

I can watch them for hours.
Those that drop from black cliffs
falling into forever.
Those that glide over our organic blip

and those that sit still
years above the sky.

Fingers sieving cool sand
the insatiable wet of the world close by.

The Immortal Mosquito

When dust first rose to blind the fallow mass,
and Judas followed Jesus, I was there.
They crowned his head with thorns on bloodied hair
and dragged him through the streets beneath a cross.
I tried the blood that bloomed upon his face
and drank a glob of Jesus in despair, 
but nothing in its essence could compare
to Judas blood so strong with thick distaste.
Since that time I feast Iscariot lines 
their blood bulbs grapes that burst on stony ground
too full of juice to hang upon the vines.
It grows in yards with wire and barbs around
yet through the years they’ve fed me very well.
I dine on wine matured by infidels


A man parked his car
at Lidl on the Aeropli road
and filled it with food and wine.


by a thin man
from Pakistan
with a spray bottle
and a dirty cloth.


he sprayed the screen,
scratched off dried bugs,
scrubbed it clean.

Grateful ( for the opportunity)

the blood faced man
rummaged for a euro,
shook the cleaner’s hand,
smiled and drove off

to his villa in the hills.

Glasgow Girl
Do you know what she said,
that blond young girl from Glasgow?

The moneyless, motherless girl
sitting on the edge of her bed,
looking down to the million-souled city,
belly slopping with cheap soup;

The girl with hungry worry gnawing
the bone at the back of her brain
with ninety eight pence and some
soup to see her through until Friday –

This blond young girl child from Glasgow said:

‘I don’t think about the future
that’s ages away isn’t it?
I worry about money, but everyone worries.
Those with money worry,
just not about money.’

Farmers   المزارعين 

(We will not learn how to live together in peace by killing each other’s children. Jimmy Carter)

Arable land blows away in winds

when soil, weighed down with water, dries.

Crust crumbled to dust lifts to blind

eyes, mute suns, stain skies.

Heads taken from necks are cognisant.

Fifteen seconds is long enough to see

the red fountain, freed from resistance,

coagulate the sun with living screed.

Farmers watch plumes trail tyres,

and silent shadows race the air

with cargos that fuel sun sized pyres;

sowing seeds, growing smoke from despair.

A roof rips off and light brandishes death.

A father’s head sees his son’s arm in flight

his girl’s legs wheel, before his final breath;

her intestines trail like the tails of a kite.

(Between the steaming tangle heaven glints.)


Hawks and Falcons shit

on high winds.

A boy on a bike squints

at a Colgate glint in the air





A pregnant woman sees

apples fall from a market stall

and the slow rotation of a warped wheel

womb on fire.

Apple Song

Sitting on a bench beneath the apple tree…

a fresh little apple hanging there for me.

‘Hey little apple how can it be

that something so lovely that the earth conceived

can be plucked and eaten by a man like me.

Because little apple it’s plain to see…

some men on this earth are born ugly

and if you could speak you would agree

some men of this earth are born ugly.

They take you apples from your apple trees…

fresh and round with no disease.

They feed you to the folks and their families

who get you from the market on days like these

days like these where a family flees.

Because little apple it’s plain to see

some men on this earth are born ugly

and if you could speak you would agree

some men on this earth are born ugly.

They take you apples from your apple trees…

and shine you up for us to see.

You’re crunchy, crisp and good for teeth,

behind you little apple there are third degrees

of people burning in the lands they seized.

They took the wealth as their strength decreed

and transfused black blood through their veins to feed

arms, money, power and greed,

and in this way they planted seeds

that grew in hate that was quick to breed.

Because little apple it’s plain to see…

some men on this earth are born ugly

and if you could speak you would agree

some men on this earth are born ugly.

Some men on this earth are born ugly.

Bank Food (for Greece!)

They feed us the banquet of the dead.

Food rotten decades ago,

is fluffed with the downy hairs of mould.

They tell us to eat this shit or die,

so we eat this shit and still we die.

Let’s die with hunger’s rat eating our insides,

not by rotten food wrapped

in the mould of age old lies.

The Blinded

We are the blinded

white eyed in the light.

We are the deafened

mute in a noisy night.

Bombarded by bits of everything

lavished with lots of nothing.

When light leaks in

when voices rise through the din.

Let them in.

Now look.

Now listen.

Now know their lies.

They burst your drums.

They stab you eyes.

A Few Haiku

                               perspiration from

                               our cool sweating valley climbs

                               making mountains float

sunset descriptions

red, blood stained, it’s all been said

kitsch, cliched fictions.                                           


                                 November sun falls

                                 upon drowsy green grasslands

                                 late flies die of cold

sunlight cast

on the belly of leaves

moves with the river

                                 the misted mirror

                                runs clear as rivulets slide

                                revealing my age

feeling flattened out

all alone and monotone

waiting for the phone

                                 lost in childish things

                                 her imagination rings

                                 bells of happiness


There Is No Time That Will Not Come Again.


There is no time that will not come again

All ages past on weightless winds have fled

But back to here we come, I know not when.


The child has gone that we have grown from grain

and now we wear the masks of parents dead.

There is no time that will not come again.


I track our years in memories through this pen

and love you more than ever could be said.

But back to here we come, I know not when.


The seasons with their changes come and then

imprint upon the old,  genetic treads.

There is no time that will not come again.


Trees in totem beauty time distain

and climb through space to light where they are fed.

But back to here we come, I know not when.


In time the mountains tumble to the plain

And raging floods with human blood run red.

There is no time that will not come again.

But back to here we come, I know not when.






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