Tag Archives: poems

In The Fog Of Liquor

In the fog of liquor
Desire grows
And the heart beats quicker.
‘Tis bliss
To kiss
But the wise one knows
That those
Soft lips
At which he sips
Are as fleeting as the rose
Which in summer grows.

So we let go
In lust
While the dust
Under the bed
Is dead
Skin, and the summer rose
Grows brown
And each petal
Does settle
On the ground
And becomes as one
With flowers long since gone.

Not My Type

I swear
That she
Was not my type,
Yet that night
Something other than empathy
Did stir
In me.
Maybe ’twas merely
Her body’s scent . . .

I thought her vulgar,
A judgement perhaps unfair,
But something other than empathy
Did stir
In me
That night,
Although I swear
That she
Was not my type.

An animal attraction maybe
To her,
But something other than empathy
Did stir
In me
That night,
Although I swear
That she
Was not my type.

The Aesthetica Creative Writing Award

“The Aesthetica Creative Writing Award is an international literary prize that is a hotbed for new talent in Poetry and Short Fiction.

The Prize, now in its 13th year, is organised by the art and culture publication, Aesthetica Magazine.

Every year, we support both emerging and established writers and through the Prize, we offer publication in an anthology that is an inspiring collection of narrative and poetic forms”.

To read more, or to enter please visit https://www.aestheticamagazine.com/creative-writing-award/

The Man With The Mop

The man with the mop
Waits in the wings
But we do not
Speak of such things.
Tiredness brings us to a stop,
And the man with the mop
Waits, unseen
In the wings
Ready to clean.
But we must
Not speak of dust
Or other such things,
But the man with the mop,
He waits in the wings.


Mermaids on the beach
Out of reach
Save in dreams
Where all seems
Fair In love and war
Withdraw, as the tide
Inside is let go
In a flow
Of Oh!

He awakes
And takes
Stock of a human day
Where no mermaids stay
For him. So, at night,
He retreats to the delight
Of the seashore
For all seems
Possible in dreams.

Abandoned Stilletos

I remember abandoned stilettos,
Left, bereft under my bed.
The ghettos
Are cruel it is said,
But you
Knew nothing of them,
(Though much of men
And their desire
To play with fire).

What drew
We 2
Diverse birds of a feather
Dare I say
That you where
A professional and I an amateur,
Or was it the other way?
I can not say.