NaPoWriMo day thirty. NaPoWriMo  2015 has come to an end and here’s my final poem. As I enjoyed writing my poem about dogs I thought I’d also do one about their nemesis. This one’s called Cats. Bye bye NaPoWriMo. Until next year…


Cats are devils in disguise.

They draw you in with big cat eyes.

They rub against you with their fur

and mesmerise you with their purr,

pretend to be your bestest friend

all to meet their evil end.

You think that it’s only you

they do all this stuff to,

then one day you meet

someone living in your street

who calls Kitty by another name

feeds and pets them just the same,

sits and strokes their silky fur

whilst listening to their gentle purr.

Habit Forming Theory

  NaPoWriMo day twenty nine. One more day to go. I have recently started a new book on how to form good habits, not exactly a literary classic I know but the subject interests me. Anyway, it prompted me to write today’s poem – well that and the fact that I have  wanted to write something with the phrase Moral Turpitude in it ever since seeing Beulah Balbricker accuse Ms Honeywell of it in the 1980’s film Porky’s. A terrible film I know but it made me laugh at the time. For the uninitiated, Ms Honeywell was played by Kim Cattrall. The poem is called Habit Forming Theory…

Habit Forming Theory


get into the habit

of having a habit.


if the habit

is a bad habit,

stop the habit

and get a new habit. Continue reading “Habit Forming Theory”


  NaPoWriMo day twenty eight. After yesterday’s frivolity poem number twenty eight is much more sober and was inspired by Anzac day, the centenary of which took place on 25th April.


Sunlight dances on bleached beaches.

We remember a time

when men were killed in their pursuit.

Penned in small coves they fell

over fallen comrades like sacrificial lambs.

Crowds bow their heads

shedding tears for their forebears,

disconnected lines on the family tree;

branches cut before flowering.

Young men, straight and tall

mark the passing of those lives against their own

and thank some unknown presence,

call it God, call it luck,

that they were not here a hundred years ago

Going Out

  NaPoWriMo day twenty seven. For poem number twenty seven I have gone with today’s NaPoWriMo suggested prompt to write a hay(na)ku. The hay(na)ku is, apparently, a variant on the haiku. To quote NaPoWriMo “A hay(na)ku consists of a three-line stanza, where the first line has one word, the second line has two words, and the third line has three words. You can write just one, or chain several together into a longer poem” so here’s my take on it. This poem’s called Going Out.

Going Out


in bath,

shave legs smooth.



teeth, cream

face and body. Continue reading “Going Out”

Cracking Up

  NaPoWriMo day twenty six. Poem number twenty six is called Cracking Up…

Multi tasking’s

not working for me.

Too much to do

too little time to do it.

Waking in the night

with a thousand things

running through my head.

Lying there thinking

don’t think,

don’t think,

don’t think.

It will come to no good

if you keep thinking

about the things you

shouldn’t be thinking about.

Losing my grip on reality,

obsessed with minutiae

of ridiculous proportions.

Think I’m going crazy,

cracking up,

cracking up.

Yeah, I’m cracking up.


New Babby

  NaPoWriMo day twenty five. Poem number twenty five is a Black Country/ Brummie version of poem number 24, it’s called New Babby. For my readers and followers outside of the UK, a Brummie is someone who comes from Birmingham and the Black Country is an area to the North West of Birmingham so called because it was once very heavily industrialised. We have very similar and unique dialects. Here it is, enjoy…

New Babby

Our Cheryl’s ‘ad a babby

A right bugger ‘e is too

‘e screams day and night

until ‘is face is big and blue.

Our Dad went up the wall

said he’d throw her out

when she sat ‘im down and told ‘im

that she was up the spout.

The lad who was responsible

legged it the same day

so Dad was left with Cheryl

and a babby on the way.

Still now that he’s born

we’ve grown to like the little sprog

Cheryl’s called ‘im Tyson

after Dad’s favourite dog.

New Baby

  NaPoWriMo day twenty five. Here is poem number twenty four, it’s called New Baby…

Once they were a couple

who stayed out late and drank in bars

when the mood took them.

Once they slept late and whiled away weekends

pursuing hobbies that gave them pleasure enough.

Now they are parents.

Late nights are the time for feeding

and listening out for snuffles and tears.

Mornings are early and pleasure comes in the shape

of a small bundle lying helpless in their arms.

They talk of those days of couple-dom with fondness.

Yes it was fun but this, this is real

Once they were a couple,

now they are a family.

Hipster Cocktail

  NaPoWriMo day twenty four. I’ve been away in London for a few days and didn’t get to post a poem yesterday so this is poem number twenty three and I am a day behind again. I will catch up over the weekend. In the meantime this poem is called Hipster Cocktail and was in fact inspired by a few strolls through Borough Market in the Southwark area of London

Hipster Cocktail

Old is the new, new

the new, new

is the new old

last year’s thing

is way too young

reuse, recycle

pre-love me up

and make it retro-tastic

vinyl kills disc every time

make it local and organic

or don’t make it at all

mass production

is the mass murder

of our trades people

hit me with your

gentrification stick

make mine a Hipster

and make it slow

The Picnic

  NaPoWriMo day twenty two and poem number twenty two is called The Picnic. Today NaPoWriMo’s optional prompt was to write a pastoral poem so this is my modern take on one…

The Picnic

We laid out our picnic, grateful

to have found a quiet spot on this pleasant day.

The park though large and rambling was popular

with families and couples alike so it was nice

to have found a niche, a sleepy hollow

where few seemed to tread.

With only the faint hum of the city in the background

we sat civilised with our wine, olives and brie

and watched nature doing its work around us.

Birds flew down to peck at stray crumbs;

a few rabbits went about their business

from a safe distance, heads bobbing up

and down, ever on watch.

And then from nowhere a fox strode into view.

Stopping mid stride he turned towards us.

Transfixed, we daren’t move

lest we frightened him away.

Unlike his mangy street cousins

this one was big and bold with a strong coat

and gleaming eyes that did not waver.

He seemed to hold our gaze forever

but really it was a matter of minutes

before he dismissed us as harmless

and trotted off to some unworldly place.

We went back to our rustic feast, confident

that we had witnessed something magical.

The Ghost of Cabbage Past

  NaPoWriMo day twenty one and poem number twenty one is about those good old days when Olive Oil was something you used for earache and leafy greens were plentiful.  It’s called The Ghost of Cabbage Past

The house smelt of cabbage

cooked and eaten long ago but in no hurry to leave.

The ghost of cabbage

slyly seeping through the keyhole;

creeping through the cracks;

lurking in the stairwell;

sliding under the doors.

The room itself was clean,

a little faded but a pleasant enough aspect

if you like your views grey and decaying.

I tried the bed, it creaked.

I sniffed, there was that smell again

invading my nasal passages;

lingering in the air.

“It’s ten shillings a week,” she said.

I caught a faint whiff of greens on her breath.

Was nowhere in this house free from the tyranny of cabbage?

“I can do you an evening meal for an extra two shilling and sixpence.”

“Would that involve cabbage?” I asked

“Maybe,” she said suspiciously.

“I’ll take it.”