I’m not a poet but….

I used to write poetry quite a lot when I was younger, it cleared my mind and allowed out the emotions that I struggled to get my head around. I thought that in this post I’d put a few of them up for you to read, feel free to give constructive criticism 🙂


Shush seems to be the constant whisper of the trees that surround me,
attempting in vain to quieten the melancholy of natures sweet song. 
As a torch, the sunbeams shine through the tile less canopy above me.
This place, this cacophony of nature,
it is my haven.
Mine and mine alone.
With the sweet scents of perfected beauty. rising from the bed I rest in.
The lullaby I have heard since childhood,
a tune that lulls me to sleep with the ease of a Mothers touch
it sings around me and I drift.
Into a slumber as perfect as my surroundings
Here I know that I will rise refreshed.
This is my haven.

My place.

(July 2000)

Scared sixteen

The future lies so far ahead
I’m curled up safe and warm in bed
I hide my face from sun and rain
When the moon is full I’ll rise again.
I’ve been my friends a stereotype
I now see myself in a different light
the knowledge gained, the innocence lost
I’ve paid the price, redeemed the cost.
My mind is scarred through blighted mouths
I’ve seen eyes change, to mobs from crowds,
Though nature seems to stay the course
my minds eye wanders, my voice turned hoarse.
The light that shines on rivers flow
can’t touch my mine but at least slows.
Blue curtains drawn across my mind,
conspires with locks on tongues and kind.
Restrictions made just to be broken,
Teenage wisdom rarely spoken.
Still, oil paintings fill the sky
of cotton wool and skylarks sigh.
The silence once of embryonic bliss,
lost in a moment, never missed.
Could eyes in photos represent
the change in minds you loan or rent.
The bright blue pools so pure and new,
you open wide you have no clue.
Of unknown poisons slowly seep
that change your eyes from bright to deep.
Scared sixteen of what’s to come,
of whether now to turn and run.
From yet another pair of eyes,
that speaks the truth though shows the lies.

(August 2000)


A cool springtime evening the grass fresh with rain,
the blackbird alights on the rooftop again.
flies off in a flash as my eyes tilt up skyward.
It’s tail rises high as his balance goes forward,
But not to the sky was his aim this May eve
instead to the lawn his flight did he weave.
Gently landing on top of the dewy wet grass
was the path he allowed for his flamboyant flash.
Standing proudly head cocked to one side with one eye
he noticed that sitting here I quietly spied.
The darkest of browns on his head and his wing
with a flash of bright gold on his beak like a ring.
With a chirp like a chuckle again rising fast,
to the eves of the roof where he’s perched in the past.
Surveying the land that he claims as his own,
surrounded by others standing proudly alone.

(April 2010)


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