WARNING: This blog is how I draft my verse and you are advised not to sit on it while the paint is still drying.


The poet during a recent visit to Great Britain. The historic engine makes a good backdrop. I’m a bit historic myself.

Why this blog?

This is where I draft and store my poetry.  I have yet to get anything published. I have yet to score a mention in any competitions. Much of my work is competent, some is not quite good enough yet, and some seems compelling to me. So far it has failed to stir anyone else. I am also working on novels. Hopefully success as a novelist will open the door for my poetry. The world doesn’t really know what it likes until somebody leads it astray.

I claim copyright on my poems – even if nobody else wants them right now!





I don’t like what you tried to do
what you did
Xerxes did before you
lash the sea
lash the sea out of spite
flog that elastic strength
into the submissive firmness of a road
or at least you tried to.

I will not wear the patter of your hobnailed boots
I will not be the highway for your loot
I will not lie down
I will not surrender the curve
the playful arching of my back
the wiggle-room waves crave
in the great sloshing to-and-fro turmoil
inside the heart’s barnacle-covered cave

I am my own man not yours.

Whatever I choose to be
form I take
representation of my will
light flung hung on the ceiling
bouncing around barnacles
in a great guffaw of mirth
being free
no stone-sucking barnacle I
am by nature’s law the man I am.

I am my own man not yours.

So should the wind trip along the wild tongue 
of water
roaring from the sky’s throat
 I shall explode from my cave
and skud along 
the white-whipped surf without a boat.

I am my own man not yours.






The prey of any larger thing
That flies or swims or walks,
I run sideways in armour plates,
My eyes lookouts on stalks.

Huge and malformed, my fists express
My contempt for the land.
It offers me no refuge but
These barren rocks and sand.

Huge and malformed, my fists express
My hatred of the sky.
What earthly use is all that space
To those who cannot fly?

Huge and malformed, my fists express
My disgust at the sea.
How can I love a think like that
That made a thing like me?

Yet none is better formed than I
For grabbing and for holding
Small morsels drifting round the seething
Edge of a devil’s cauldren.




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