Tag Archives: literature

My Younger Self

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I sit here

Drinking beer

Alone at home

In this dying heatwave

Unable to forget

What I could not save.

 

 

As I drink

I think

Of girls who padded like cats

Around my bachelor’s flat

In their bare feet.

 

 

We drank wine

And, sometimes

I would find

A kind

Of comfort in a stranger’s arms.

 

A few  left charms behind.

A hairband

I kept in a drawer,

Though I saw her no more.

 

I returned hair extensions.

There was no pretention

Of love.

 

Drinking my beer

I look back on half wasted years.

There where tears and laughter

But what comes after …

 

Perhaps I can find

A sort of tenderness

Tinged with regret.

 

 

I can not forget

And sometimes wonder

What they remember

Of me

Thoughts on a Thunder Storm

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The thunder came

In the early morning.

 

 

I heard the heavy rain

And saw the lightning

Flash across the  summer sky.

 

 

Alone at home

I thought of the old gods

Who  will remain

When man can no longer see

The lightning

Nor hear Thor

Laugh

For he knows

Civilisations rise and fall

And men are fragile

As glass

In shop windows

Lighted at night

To display

What we know

Must pass away.

Mid June

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Mid June.

Sunshine.

The longest day of the year

Draws near.

 

Everything must decline.

My rhyme

Will find its end.

 

Another year

Will bring spring flowers.

I will think on hours

And the brevity

Of rhyme.

Kew

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I must have liked you

As I paid for us at Kew.

 

 

We spent some hours

Among exotic flowers,

And strolled in glass houses

Where respectable spouses

Walked too.

 

I bought

A room in a cheap hotel

Off Victoria Street

Where assorted lovers meet

Then depart

And no hearts are left

Bereft.

 

We dropped off the key

At reception

Saying we would be back …

I wonder, did they have any  perception

Of us two …

 

It was just an hour

Or so

In a cheap hotel

Long ago.

 

 

But I must have liked you

For I paid for you at Kew.

 

Brain Abscess

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Some fear their final breath.

I have fought

With the absence of thought

Were I reached for words

And repeated “thank you” again and again.

 

There was no pain

Of the physical kind.

Just the mind

Closing down

And a lopsided walk.

 

When I cried

It was not at the fear

Of dying.

I can face my final breath.

No! I shed my tears

For the collapse of my mind.

 

I found in me

No poetry of mine

But grasped at others rhymes

To keep my inflamed brain

Alive.

 

I survived.

My brain abscess is no more.

I pour out poetry.

For I am not yet dry.

 

 

One day I will die.

 

 

I have no great dread

Of being dead.

What I fear

Is living death

Were breaths are taken

But the mind is dying

Or dead.

The Clock

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Whenever I return to my family home

The clock on the wall

Stands alone

Looking down on us all.

 

I have composed rhyme

To women and wine

And the clock on the wall

Watches us all.

 

We laugh

And time slips away.

As the clock on the wall

Looks down on us all.

 

One day

Someone will be gone

And the clock on the wall

Will tick on

Just the same.

 

For Time is blind

And the clock knows not

Who has gone

And who remains.

Who has

Poetry

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I walk in sunshine

And gentle rain.

I see

My shadow

Goes with me.

 

 

I feel beauty

In rainbows.

 

 

But what will remain

When I go?

 

 

Just dust.

The elements

And me,

Refracted back

In poetry

A Square of Sunlight

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I saw a square

Of sunlight fall

On my study wall.

 

 

It is no longer there –

 

 

We all borrow

Each joy and sorrow

Until our square

Vanishes into empty air.

I Feel the Wind

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I feel the wind

On my skin

And hear him

Whisper in the trees

Reminding me of you.

 

I go in

And face my darkening window

Were I to die tonight

I would go happy –

 

Yet tomorrow will probably come.

I will walk in sun

Or rain.

Then, returning home again

I will face my window

But not the same

One as tonight

Poet Kevin Morris on World Poetry

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On Thursday 19th March I hosted a segment on the World Poetry Reading Series World Poetry Cafe March 19 2026 with Kevin Morris by VictorSchwartzman | Mixcloud. During my section of the podcast I read William Wordsworth’s the Solitary Reaper which is one of my favourite poems. In addition, I recited a number of my own poems and talked about my poetry.

 

To listen to the show please follow the above link. My bit starts some 20 minutes into the podcast.