Some Verse (What I Wrote)

So Sets the Sun

Neath blackened fronds of Cyprus

A golden strip of light

Forms like a jagged isthmus

Where day turns into night

Layers of vibrant colour

Emanate from the west

God’s palate never fuller

As he puts the day to rest.


Far off hills beneath the glow

With battleship clouds on station

Will all too soon have to go

Along with our elation

As the eerie fingers of the night

Steal across the land 

Engulfing all remaining light

In its ethereal hand


The Last Post

Picture the scene, 1915 suburban England. A young mother is about to put her young son to bed. A knock on the door and a letter hastily posted through the letterbox. She nervously picks up the dirt-stained envelope and places it on the kitchen table.

Her young son senses that his Mother is distracted and asks:


“Mummy, where are Daddy’s benches?”

“Darling child, come to me,

Your Daddy is in the trenches,

Far across the great North Sea.


The trenches are quite comfortable,

Daddy is dry and warm,

His men are quiet and affable,

He’s sheltered from the storm.”


“Will Daddy get hurt by the Huns?”

“That, I cannot say,

Knowing he’s facing deadly guns

All we can do is pray.”


“Your Daddy is brave, fit and strong

He knows not fear nor dread,

This war, it will not last too long.

Darling. Prayers and then to bed.”


‘Wife, I miss your touch, your smile

I miss our little boy,

We have no time to sit and while,

Out here there is no joy…’


Alone, she reads by candlelight

The letter from her man.

Tears flow for his sorry plight

As only wives tears can.


‘The cold, the screams of injured men,

The mud that’s ankle deep,

I try to lift morale for them

But words are oh, so cheap.


I am frightened, my darling wife,

I try to be brave for my men.

I really fear for my life

My constant thought is; when!…’


The tears flow freely, down both cheeks

The lady is in despair.

First letter in nearly seven weeks,

How she wishes he wasn’t there!


‘When will this madness come to an end?

When will the dove of peace,

Feather its wings and descend

To give us sweet release?


I send my love to my darling son,

And to you, my cherished wife.

I go back now to face the Hun

And the mayhem that’s my life.’


The Flame Dies

March, 2018: It is going to be cold for the next few weeks. Temperatures as low as minus 10 to minus 14 in some areas of the UK.

We have all seen the, “Down and Outs, The disenfranchised, the Alkies;” call them what you will.

Some will be as unfortunate as the character in my next verse.


I sense the roots

I cannot see

Stars shine, not for me. 

Pithy so pithy

Above, trees, swaying

The north wind, baying

A macabre falsetto

Andante to allegretto


Cold; so cold, frozen.

Tears, warming tracts,

Fall on rotting bracts

Oh, the irony!

I, decaying inside

They dying outside

New life will evolve

Alas, this one to resolve


Oh God! I need a drink.

Sweet Bacchus I pray

Fine wine before day.

Alone, so dark, help me

Frosted leaves form my quilt

Empty bottle, full of guilt.

Guilt for drinking, for lying

For stealing, for dying.


All there through frosted glass

A crystal ball by London Gin

My life there, within

I watch my flame flicker

I lie here, prone

Cold, all alone

I watch my flame flicker

I watch my flame flicke……

The Land of The Free?

The hills gave way to prairie

As far as the eye could see

Undulating in the wind,

A vast organic sea.


The children of the prairie

Proud, stood tall and free

Shaman, in feathered robes

Proclaimed their destiny


Other hills on distant shores

Fade as the sails unfurled

Whilst Pilgrims on the decks below

Dream of the dark New World.


No Shaman here to cast the stones

Or dream the dreams of life

Just simple men and women folk

With faith in God and life!


Years past, in peace and war

Greed was at the very core.

For the Children of the Prairie

Their home would be no more!


Gold, silver, iron ore.

The shout was always more.

The heroes of the comic books

Were rotten to the core!


Grasslands of the Prairie

stained with proud red blood

Could not withstand the flow

Of the great white tidal flood!


Genocide – De Rigueur

But proud men would not flee!

Atrocities, they would occur

One such at Wounded Knee!


Cowards hid in mists of dawn

Awaiting the bloody command

Then fell upon the sleeping throng

And blood festooned the land!


Dreams gave way to screams,

They tried, but could not flee!

Poor mothers and their children

Killed at Wounded Knee!


Years have passed, proud men have gone,

Banished from the great prairie

And does the irony lay heavy

On the Country of the Free?

No Win No Claim

A message to employers of idiots with no brain

Sack them all before your pockets start to feel the strain.

Don’t give them a scaffold ladder to climb up the factory wall

Because, just like Humpty Dumpty, you’ll be heading for a fall.

As soon as the ladder shudders, before he hits the ground

The fire alarm installer will be worth a thousand pound.

The National Accident Helpline will receive his call with glee

Fat cats all, in pinstripes, leeching off you and me.


Invest in your foyer, put carpet wall to wall

Then you might prevent some idiot heading for a fall

Keep back your mops and buckets for cleaning out the loo

Use barriers and signs which tell people what to do.

And if some fool ignores them and falls flat on his face

Take an instant photo and weaken the idiot’s case

The National Accident Helpline will receive his call with glee

Fat cats all, in pinstripes, leeching off you and me.


They are all out there to get you; I’ll name but a few,

There are The National Accident Helpline and Injury lawyers 4U

They portray the bumbling idiot as a victim of our times

And it’s you, the business owner who is blamed for all the crimes.

It is your insurance premiums that will be going through the roof

Idiot and lawyer need very little proof.

The National Accident Helpline will receive his call with glee

Fat cats all, in pinstripes, leeching off you and me.



Standing tall on bended knee the Squire, in peasants clothes,

Asked the maiden to marry him as she skipped by in repose.

‘Marry you? Forsooth, she said. ‘I cannot be your bride,

It is said that you prefer young men to walk close by your side!’

‘Fear not sweet maid those days are gone I am no more that way,

The witch who cast a spell on me died just yesterday.’

‘She thought she was safe in hiding but I soon found her lair,

See, here is a bloodstained lock of the evil crone’s black hair.’


‘I’m sorry Lord, the answer’s no, my mind you will not sway,

Especially as I saw you, ‘in flagrante’,  yesterday

I believe he is a swain, a herder of your sheep,

But fear not my Lord and Master, tis a secret I will keep.’

‘Come now pretty maiden, your eyes they dost deceive,

For I was merely giving instruction before he took his leave.’

‘Instruction to serf from Master will never go amiss,

But did you have to convey it with a sloppy Kiss?’


‘You forget yourself, young maiden. Am I not your Squire?’

Asked the Aristocratic youth, suffused with angst and ire.

‘Stamping your foot my Lord will not get you your way

For I love another whom I hope to marry some fine day.’

‘You will marry me and like it!’ The chastened youth replied.

As for this other prospect, why I’ll have his hide!’

‘Wake, my Lord. You are dreaming,’ it was repeated once again.

As he was woken from a drunken sleep by the landlord’s daughter Jane.



(This Sums up Labour & the Tories)

Jonny Doggerel was not adverse to writing poetry

About his cat!

Not that he owned one,

But Jonny couldn’t see the irony in that.

Aunty Cedric, a cross-dressing nun

Had bought him a toy one just for fun.

She had slipped out at Vespers,

On a day dank and foggy

So no one would notice a nun and stuffed moggie.

Named Dermi, by Jonny for reasons unknown

Who spent hours on the internet seeking a clone.

His mother worried

But what could she do? 

He was also her brother and twenty-two.

Sadly the end of this story is sad

Dermi fell foul of Jonny’s mad dad.

Who tripped over the cat as it lay on the floor

Forgotten by Jonny who had gone to the moor

to fly his new kite.

He returned full of vigour and flushed with good health

To find his stuffed cat unstuffed on the shelf.

Finally, one for the children.

Farmyard Squabbles

“Cluck, cluck, cluck,” said Mother Hen.

“Look at my chicks, I’ve now got ten!

There’s Hetty, Clarabelle, Sydney and James,

Jeffery, Susie, Mary and Maime

Then there is Donna and Chrissie as well,

Who both had a problem breaking their shell!”


“Well, I’ve got twelve ducklings,” said Dilly the Duck

“You don’t hear me going cluck, cluck, cluck!

Stop strutting around; it’s really quite rude!

And it’s not as if they’re your first brood.

Dignity dear and quiet; if you’re able,

And you may just stay off the farmer’s table!”


“Now stop it you two,” said Harriet Hog.

“My young are asleep by that log,

Twelve little piglets all pink and replete

Having a nap after something to eat;

I’m going to be angry if I hear a pig squeak

And I’ll chase you two for the rest of the week!”


“Cluck, cluck, cluck,” said Old Mother Hen

“And how will you chase me from inside that pen?

“Oh I’ll find a way, you mark my words

And I’ll take no cheek from a couple of birds!”

From the back of the sty came a mighty roar

And out ran her husband; Henry the boar.


He charged at the gate but the bolts held firm

Henry just roared and started to turn

Then he charged once again and the gate exploded

The hinges flew off and the bolts just folded

The piglets awoke and started to cry

Then ran from the log and outside the sty


“You stupid old Hog!” Shouted Henry’s wife,

“You really are the bane of my life!

Get after my babies, and then fix that gate

They’re due for a feed so don’t you be late!”

So off he went, under a cloud

The hen and the duck were laughing out loud.


‘It’s all your fault, you quarrelsome pair!’

Said Harriet under a baleful stare

That was aimed at the two mirth ridden fowl,

Now on their backs, beginning to howl.

‘Just go away and take your brood

You’re not only stupid but downright rude!’


‘Oh, poor Mrs. Piggy.’ Said Dilly the Duck.

It was then that Harriet ran amok!

Like a misguided missile, she leapt from her pen

Aiming, roughly at Old Mother Hen

The farmyard was filled with feathers and dust

As the birds leapt away from The Piggy’s bloodlust


Ducklings were quacking, the chicks went tweet, tweet

All of them dodging the pigs flying feet.

It took an age for the pig to grow calm

She had chased the birds all over the farm.

On weary trotters, and mouth flecked with foam

Harriet turned and headed for home. 


Dilly the Duck said, ‘wasn’t that fun?

Did you see how quick that fat pig could run?’

‘Yes,’ said the hen. ‘she was in a state.

Did you see her face when the boar broke the gate?’

‘Yes, and his face when he trudged from the pen?

I can’t wait till tomorrow to do it again!’