Bedside Table

Byron, Goethe, Baudelaire
rest upon the nightstand where
they relate their worlds to me
from long dead eyes, through words
still see.

And their flesh in leather bound
though silent save each leaf’s sound
is warm as life and breathes new born
from yellowed pages, cracked and worn.

Their verses are my candle’s fire
burning light on those desires
that from my own mind must escape
and in such patterns be reshaped

Three Seperate Partial Poems Sellotaped Together To Appear As One

The cricket chorus chitters
as the sun pops off to bed
soon the nightly blanket
will be pulled over our heads

the cellist in the underground
wiped his weary brow
and held the bow above his head
to take his final bow

there were two herons staring down
each other on the marsh
I think they’d had an argument
they sounded rather harsh

my rhythm has escaped me
I haven’t caught my time.
so instead today
I wrote this way
in these few disparate lines

Broken Biscuits

In my head’s a biscuit tin
I keep unfinished poems in
there’s one about a robin
on the rails
and then there’s epic sagas
of heroes bold and true
on fated quests
destined but to fail,
sometimes on scraps and scrapings
at the bottom of the tin
there’s little bits of songs
I never played
librettos of rainy afternoons
when I hadn’t better things to do
and there’s folded paper animals I made.
The lid is not the best of fits
it’s bent around the edge of it
the years have took their toll
it must be said
but as a little library
of all the thoughts that sculpted me
I wouldn’t swap the biscuit tin
that lives inside my head.