The colours of the street have changed

Tight red-green leaves sprout on the curbside trees. Drizzle taps the flattened Strongbow cans stomped down with an empty pizza box American hot pepperoni and chilli. Baronsmere’s pink petals line the gutters; blown down in April rains. I even spied a spider. 12 and 13/4/2015 — In rhythm and feel, this poem bears a resemblance

look – really look

I will be 80 this year here in my flat only a mile and a half from where I was born. I have tried to lead by example, by plunging my narrow balcony into the principality of hanging gardens. Concrete is brutal. It needs softening. Plants should have dominion. We breakfast amidst the crisp verdure

104 Poems

The 2×52 project developed in April 2013 when I committed to posting two poems a week for a year. I completed my self-made creative challenge this April when I revealed the 104th poem. Next month (June 2014), all the poems will be available in a book at my Blurb bookstore. In the meantime, here are the 104=2×52 poems listed in all their glory! And for your convenience, so

Another Tube Poem: Tunnel Days

They who serve the suction of daybreak, beneath the earth, beneath the dew, beneath the kitchens where there’s burning toast and grapefruit, bury, with the morning light, their hope of hearing birdsong. — My commuting is less than a tenth of many who live and work in London. But when I am on the move,

St Paul’s Church, Covent Garden

Cold fingers, the volunteer gardeners rake leaves from the flowerbeds that circle tree-trunks. A last green and white hydrangea stares its bath-cap head at me. Cars hoot near Bedford St. There’s a helicopter overhead. Leaves and Tesco receipts blow across the square paving-stones. It’s 1 minute to 10. A cold breeze catches the morning. —

Tube sketch (one of a few)

The man with the notebook draws attention. The woman alongside hum drops her Evening Standard to glance. Left-handed he is writing with a ballpoint in a Moleskine, A5-sized. Two page turners across from each other. — The poems this week centre around London and the ordinary, daily observations living in this metropolis offers. Our first

London’s Molten Hour

Bye, bye, people. I’ll call you later. Are you going home now? To all the dusty rented rooms, nasty pine furniture with walls on other people’s flushing toilets, Skype calls and rhythmic thuds they try to obscure with loud beats of an album on repeat. Another aeroplane. A train. We reside near transport under a

Would you ever live in Heather Green?

Would you ever live in Heather Green with a lamp missing a tassle from its shade? Lit tealights in the glass holders on the rented windowsill occasionally Assam from loose leaves in a pot. Would that be a life to live? Where there’s no need to mow lawns on a Saturday because you own no

Stuck

Lento con agitato, for 10 minutes to to to tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow too morrow to to morrow tomorrow row tomorrow morrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow After the stroke Aunt Edie struggled with tomorrow and words. We performed patience with wrapped chrysanthemums for twenty minutes each week. She lay tied up in tubes. — In much printed

Genuine

When it is from deep inside and through my eyes, that crinkled nose – my truest smile. — For some time I was a regular attendee of a writing group. I often presented very short poems (some of which were to feature in ‘Shining in Brightness‘, my first volume and others which are earmarked for