Category Archives: Poems

Good evening and welcome to my blog.

Tonight’s offering is a foray into new territory for me, in terms of the rhythm or flow of the poem. The topic is also new, but I am in the process of experimenting with writing styles and with how the poem flows when read. I’m not trying to change my “voice” – I like the way my poems are, but I am aware that they are raw, and unrefined. That being said, this poem does sound different to the others I have written.

But, you can’t make an omelette without shaking a chicken violently,  so I am prepared to embrace new ideas.

All my poems so far have had either none or very little editing once they have been written. Since I have been performing my poetry at open mic nights, and since meeting other poets, I have received lots of valuable feedback  which has made me look at what I write with a slightly more critical eye. Now I will aim to write my Friday Poem in advance enough to be able to come back to it after a few days and read it ‘fresh’ and make any changes I feel necessary. My aim is to write even better poetry, which will be more enjoyable (even more enjoyable) for you to read.

So, not one to rest on my Laurels (or Hardys), I am trying to improve what I do.


Here is this week’s Friday Poem, I hope you like it.


At The End

When old age comes and strips me of my youth

And time’s incessant marching colours grey,

What gifts will life bestow me, else than truth:

That from death’s path one cannot turn away.


And facing fate then, how should I appear?

To others – work-mates, family, or friends.

Should they all see me eaten up by fear?

Such action will not save me from my end.


Enthusiasm has the same effect;

In that it gives us no more time at all.

So act – or not; or if you wish, reflect.

For each of us the hourglass sand must fall.


To some death is a very final act.

The reaper ceases all and seals our fate.

Belief for others binds them to this pact:

Reunion with those gone before does wait.


To each of us death comes — that is no lie.

Don’t look for comfort; I have none to give.

But rather than obsess on how we die,

Our time would be best spent on how we live.




Good evening and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem!!

If you thought I was going to do a poem about Friday 13th, I’m afraid you are unlucky.

This week’s poem has been in the making for a few weeks now, and while I have no doubt that I could improve on it, there only so much tweaking you can do (unless you want to pay for that sort of thing).

This poem evolved from a simple four line verse that reads:


A circus Ringmaster, long retired,

Lay on his death-bed and expired.

When asked what caused him to be dead,

‘Roll ups, Roll ups’ His doctor said.


Although only four lines, I must admit that this little verse is one of my favourites. It is simple, but effective.


Anyway, here is the evolved version of the little four-liner.

I like it, I hope you do to.




A Circus owner long retired

Lay on his death-bed and expired.

Before he went to his eternal rest

To a life of shame he at last confessed

His Circus had brought him fame and glory

But behind the scenes was a different story.


Every act was in truth a sham;

Papered over by the glitz and glam.

Tricks and guile would front each show

So that paying customers would not know

The truth about these “superstars”

And would continue with their “oooh”s and “Aaaah”s


The daredevils who graced the high trapeze

Had tricks to put themselves at ease;

To quell their raging fear of heights

Bottles of Gin lay in their tights.

The crowds that saw them leap and soar

Soon had more women than before

Who gasped when back and forth they swung

And marvelled at just how well they hung.


The lion tamer, was just a fraud;

His beasts were toothless and de-clawed.

And while they snarled with ears laid flat

The was no risk of any attack.

It’s hard to really come to grief

When a savage beast only has false teeth.

Still, in Lions jaws he did taunt death

Albeit asphyxiation from bad breath.


The clowns were such a miserable band

On antidepressants to a man.

Against the façade of their comic species

Just like their car, they fell to pieces.

The hilarious clown baby often seen

Was 44 and on Sertraline

Ironically bringing laughter to you and me

Then off for long sessions of therapy.


The jugglers were initially awful – both having lazy eyes

Each carefully watching as the projectile passed by

The recipients of these mis-aimed throws

Were often the injured in the first two rows.

As the juggling became less skilled or funny

The audiences wanted danger money.

So to save on lawsuits and improve on catches

The jugglers were forced to wear eye patches


The bearded lady was just a joke

Simply an out of shape middle-aged bloke

The beard was real, as were his moobs

Shaped by no exercise and greasy food.

Advertised as “Shy and quiet – the lady’s choice”

To hide her deep and manly voice.

With plenty of makeup ‘she’ looked quite sweet

Though viewing was restricted to twenty feet.


The famous strong man was just a wimp

Even his moustache hung there limp

To make queries about his prowess mute

His muscles came from an inflatable suit.

Once pumped up, and with his fake chest hair

He made all the ladies stop and stare.

However, the secret action of the air departing

Earned him a reputation for horrendous farting.


At first the human cannonball was far too podgy

Which risked the act appearing dodgy.

To leave the cannon he was too fat

And in practice was pathetically spat

About two feet down to the ground

Where momentum made him roll around.

A solution was found in a twin –

Identical, apart from being more thin.

The chubby version would be obscured by smoke

And in the distance would appear the thinner bloke.

The audience would happily cheer and shout

As backstage the fat one would be crow-barred out.


The Ringmaster got all this off his chest

And admitted, though they weren’t the best

His circus did put on a good show

And in general the audience didn’t know.

When asked if he felt what he did was wrong

His last words were, “the show must go on!”

Which proves that no matter if you are slave or King

People will believe anything!










Good evening and welcome to my blog, and to this week’s Friday Poem.

I am an unashamed romantic at heart and every now and then I get the notion to write something romantic rather than funny for a poem. This week’s offering is one of those moments.

I hope you like it. If you do, feel free to tell people where you read it.


Here it is:



A Bluebird alighted on my heart

And sang  a song so sweet.

She told me of the joy I’d feel

When my one true love I’d meet.


I asked when love would come my way

And how I’d know for sure;

The Bluebird said, that day would come

When I heard her song no more.


The Bluebird visited every day,

And every day did sing.

As days turned into weeks and months,

She became a cherished thing.


I looked for love, and once or twice

Thought the real thing I’d found.

But still my Bluebird visited me

And made her beautiful sound.


And then one day, she came no more;

I knew then, she had left.

Sad that her song I’d no longer hear,

I was left alone, bereft.


And then I looked, and saw your face

As your love came shining through.

I realised then, she had sent you to me,

And my Bluebird’s words came true.



Good evening and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

This week’s offering came as a result of a direct result of a conversation I had a number of weeks back at the excellent Seventh Seal – the gentleman’s clothing retailer and barber shop where I get the best damned beard trim and shave I ever have received.

I was talking to one of the proprietors, Toby about my poetry writing, and he was trying to recall the name of a poet he liked. The Poet’s name was Archie something, and as soon as he had said “Archie”, I instantly said “Pelago” as a play on the word Archipelago – which is a large group or chain of islands. I have always thought that “Archie Pelago” would be a good name for a character in a novel.

Toby found my play on words amusing, and suggested that I write a poem about a character called Archie Pelago – and went on to suggest that he should have multiple personalities, just like an Archipelago has multiple islands.

So, here is what I came up with.




Archie Pelago is a nice enough boy;

He runs, and jumps, and plays with toys.

But while he is great at climbing trees

He does also have seven personalities.


Brian – that’s personality number six

Is eighty-four, and needs a stick.

His memory isn’t what it used to be –

But he loves a biscuit with his cup of tea.


Personality number three – now that’s young Kelly.

She’s once was an extra on the telly.

Given half the chance she’ll tell you tales

Of walking in the background in Emmerdale.


Number two is a salty dog called Davey

Who served his King in the merchant Navy.

The sea air has roughened up his voice

And some of Davey’s language can be choice.


The fourth persona of young Archie

Is the famous showman Liberace.

Perpetually performing one of his shows

Whilst bathed in sequins from head to toe.


June is personality number five

A weary and bored, down-trodden housewife

She keeps bottles of gin in a battered old trunk

And frequently makes an appearance drunk.


The seventh member of Archie’s psyche

Is a former Elvis look-a-likey.

Who perpetually does the voice it seems

Although his accent says he’s from Milton Keynes.


Archie himself completes the group

And seems quite contented with his troupe

But when he’s happy, what I find most beguiling

Is that I never know which of them is smiling…..



My thanks to Toby for the inspiration!

If you want to inspire me to write a poem on a subject of your chosing, just get in touch!


Good evening, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

This poem came to be about ten weeks ago, after a conversation with a work colleague whom I was telling about the Poem challenge – where I was inviting people to suggest something for me to write a Poem about.

My colleague – being a clever chap, and one who likes to think ‘outside the box’, didn’t offer up a specific topic or subject for me to write about. Instead his suggestion was one that had me thinking for quite a while.

He simply asked me to write a poem without the letter “A” in it at all.

So Marc, thank you for this – I really enjoyed writing it!



“Write your poem, without the first vowel”.

The instruction to me, is given.

Gleefully I nod – my thoughts unfurl.

With purpose, I write – driven.


Verse one, complete with the merest of fuss.

Some words required more thinking.

The rhymes will often be troublesome.

I find solutions when drinking.


Two down – E, I, O, U only present.

But where is this poem going?

My focus is on the vowels to use –

The story just isn’t growing.


Three for nought – still unspoilt

By the vowel I must not mention.

This test is proving to be no such thing

except one show of my word retention.


Verse four – done. The point is proved;

The instruction followed completely.

To my instructor, this note I send most humbly;


Tougher tests welcomed freely.



If you would like me to write a Friday Poem on a subject of your choosing, please get in touch and let me know. I’m open to all suggestions (as the grafitti on my local railway bridge will testify to).


























Good evening, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem.

This week’s offering is an example of a poem that I wrote for a friend of mine for his Birthday. It did it on a whim – which is not a traditional Mongolian table, but rather the spur of the moment. Frustratingly, some of my best work occurs in less than five minutes (although my fiancée might dispute the term ‘best’). For example, a colleague at work was celebrating their fiftieth birthday today, and her friends mentioned to me that they should have asked me to write her a poem, but had forgotten. I said that I still could write her a poem, and all I would need is some basic info about her. They told me that she was young at heart, like the singer Meatloaf and singing Karaoke – and that she was partial to a drop of Gin occasionally. I went away, and within five minutes had a poem written that encapsulated all the elements mentioned.

The friends read it to the Birthday girl, who liked it so much she cried with happiness.

I do offer a bespoke poem writing service – if you would like a poem written for yourself, or someone else perhaps to celebrate a birthday, engagement, wedding or other celebration – or to remember a loved one who has left us, All I would need is some information about what the theme of the poem should be about, whether any specific memories of events should be included, and I will create a poem about it.

Drafts of poems would be reviewed with you until you are happy, and I would discuss costs with you before starting.

I would be happy to discuss any ideas you may have – simply contact me using the contact from on the “about me” page of this blog, or by emailing me at

But enough of that! Here is the Poem I wrote – written for an excellent friend.

He liked it, I hope you like it too.


David Poem

There is a tale as old as thought itself

Of a hero strong and bold

Who despite the onward march of time

Was free from age’s hold.

Atop his head sat a crown of hair

Unrivalled in its sheen and lustre

And within his eyes, did mirth reside

For he had a wicked twinkle mastered.

And he was wise as he was young

He was practical with his hands

His skill with wood and with his axe

Was famous throughout the lands.

By god he couldn’t half whittle!

He’d whittle whatever you like.

He once pulled a log, right out of a bog

And whittled up two prams and a bike.

Now you’d think, that was enough for one man

But not him – he could play instruments too.

Another wonderful thing – whilst he played, he could sing!

And always had a song ready – or two.

And lo, as if reward for his greatness

The gods bestowed upon him a great wife.

With blazing red hair, a deep loving stare,

And like him, she was good with a knife!

And together they whittled two children

Who only strengthened the light that shone.

And the love that resides, in their house and outside

Is a beacon, always guiding him home.

Some say that this man is just legend,

Or that he’s made up – or even a joke.

But I know that he’s real – cos I’ve met him

And he really is a bloody top bloke!!


Good evening, and welcome to this week’s Friday Poem – which is going to be a long one!

(Gasps of shock from the readers. Someone screams. Far off in the distance, a Horse coughs nervously)

Last weekend, I went with my fiancée to Bridport Hat Festival, and this is a poem that I thought of after visiting the festival.

The events depicted below are purely for comedic effect, and any similarity to persons or animals alive or dead, with hat or without is purely unintentional.

So sit down, strap in, and prepare yourself for this week’s offering.

I hope you like it.

Drama at Bridport Hat Festival!!

To Bridport Hat Festival I did go

With my fiancée in her new chapeau

To see what gives and say “what ho!”

At Dorset’s finest display of Millinery.


We both wore hats, as is the rule

She made her own, looking elegant and cool

Mine was shop bought – I looked a fool

But hoped to go unnoticed.


Our journey to Bridport was warm and sunny

We had high hopes, and a little money.

Passing traffic queues to Dorchester was quite funny

As we sped unhindered on our way.


Soon enough, we safely arrived

And eventually a parking space we spied

For no apparent parking details were contrived

In any information we had seen.


But we were there, so nothing else mattered

We reveled gladly in Millinery that flattered

Some hats looked new; others, worn and tattered

But what a selection on show!


There were Trilby and Tricorn, Berets and Caps

Hats made of Felt, and hats with huge flaps

Hats made for ladies, and hats made for chaps

And so many adorned with extras.


There were buildings and animals, and even the Devil

A hard hat with tool belt, and spirit level

A crocheted arm, with a tattoo that said “Beryl”

If you could think it, it was here on a hat.


And the people were laughing and talking quite loud

You could tell that to be there, they were all very proud

It was a real joy to be part of this crowd

What a tip-top Hat festival this was!


Then all of a sudden, the mood went flat

As an old lady crossed herself, cursed and spat

Saying, “that bloke there – he ain’t got no hat!”

And everyone stopped and stared.


And sure enough, it was really true

As real as the summer sky is blue

He was stood there, this bloke –  like you do

But with nothing on his head.


I say nothing, but that isn’t actually fair;

His head was aflame with rich red hair

At which you couldn’t help but stare

As it flickered in the gentle breeze.


Like ripples on water, heads turned in the crowd

To see this man stood there, brazenly uncrowned.

I heard someone mutter “shouldn’t be allowed”

And murmurs of approval echoed.


The whole scene was now blanketed by a deafening hush

Nobody hurrying; no-body in a rush.

Several people’s ice-creams had now turned into slush

But you could have heard a hat-pin drop.


Everyone waited; the tension was raw

Some wanted answers – some wanted war!

One bored dog wanted sleep, and so started to snore

And the atmosphere steadily darkened.


A stand-off ensued; no one dared made a move

The man stared at the crowd; he had nothing to prove.

Local cows shuffled nervously to and fro on their hooves.

It was like being in the eye of a storm.


And then a rumble began rising up from the floor

Through the crowd it spread, becoming a roar

Fixated, a shop keeper inadvertently shut his hand in his door

As in one voice the crowd shouted “YOU!!”





We are a charity – so on your way out please donate.”


But the man stood there unmoved, steadfast and firm

He didn’t bat an eyelid, nor flinch or squirm.

The situation was tighter than a pensioner’s perm

When suddenly the stranger sprang into life.


With a cruel mocking sneer, he smirked as he said

“look at you lot with those hats on your head

I hate hats – I loathe them; I’d rather be dead

And I think you’re a whole bunch of fools!”


With that, in a flurry he threw down his coat

And leapt up onto the crowd like a mountain goat

Then sprang away over them kicking several folk in the throat

Laughing, with his hair blazing as he went.


Well, as you’d expect – it all went to pot;

There was uproar, chaos, anarchy – the lot.

The poor town crier fainted right there on the spot

As the red-haired stranger fled.


Crowd surfing vertical, away he did skit

Sending hats flying as he did so – and enjoying it

The knocked off hat festival would sound a bit shit

And so arms reached out ready to grab him.


A forest of limbs up from the crowd suddenly sprang

But the man dodged through them like a crazed orangutan

Until caught by his trouser elastic with an audible ‘twang!’

And a swarm of hands dragged him down.


Well, he thrashed and he flailed like a great white shark

But the hands gripped him tightly to prevent any more larks

I suspect that the gripping might have left quite a mark

As he was ceremoniously thrown out of the town.


His description was passed to the local authorities

Who sent word to be vigilant to all rural bobbies

And instruction to immediately, and without question seize

The persona non-grata if seen.


The festival continued, but lessons were learned

The organisers did not want their fingers again to be burned

So from now all visitors will be forcibly upturned

And shaken to ensure they have a Hat.


If they don’t – then entry may still be allowed

Although their identity will be broadcast to the hat wearing crowd

Who will watch you suspiciously, until you they say VERY loud

“I’d like to buy a hat please!!”


So if you are thinking of visiting, please heed this advice;

You will be most welcome, Bridport Hat Festival is so nice

But to not wear at hat – well you’d better think twice

As forcible ejection may offend!