Poetry Page.

Before the Poems, A Celtic Blessing for all who read our pages. From us all to you:

May your God’s cradle you in the protective palm of their hand, May the sun shine in your face.
May the wind be a gentle breeze on your back.
May the road ahead be clear,
with gentle gradients, clear divisions and surmountable hurdles.
May the spirit of love we share keep us bonded.
And may the force be with you.
And with your friends.
And your fellows.
And, yes, even our foes;
So they may be drawn into the light and walk there with us.

So, welcome to the weird and wonderful world of poetry.

This poem is what it is….make of it what you will!

Mr Incy Wincy spider

Made a beautiful web of silk

In Nathaniel’s bedroom in Dulwich

(not Doncaster as first presumed).

While the occupant was away

He did all a favour and kept the flies at bay.

The web was crafted

Sublime

And Incy sat proudly centre point

Confident in what he surveyed

Trusting the role he had in the rooms ecosystem

But…

When Nathan returned,

His girlfriend screamed

And Incy and his home were swept away.

In passing retort,

He was told he had brought this upon himself.

This poem contemplates loss, grief and betrayal from those closest to you all in one. I’m not doing a guide for this one. It is too emotional.

Saying Goodbye to My Parents

I write to say goodbye.

And sorry.

Whatever I did to annoy you,
to let you down,
to make you sad,

sorry.

But can you apologise
for how I feel right now?

Betrayed.
Stabbed.
Broken inside.

My very soul has slipped away,
wounded and lost.

Everything I thought I knew,
all the love I believed I had,

blown away like leaves in the wind.

What makes me cry
is that I always believed
when I died,

you would be there
waiting for me.

Now there will be no-one
to hold my hand.

Only tears
falling onto a grave
that cannot answer.

Stalker

This poem is kind of dark. It comes from listening to Blondie’s “One Way or the Other” about a stalker. But I wanted to write the poem from the perspective of the stalker, how they go places for the pure satisfaction to be seen, that need is here in the poem.

The Stalker

Oh my God, you saw me

It gave me such a thrill

I had to smile and nudge my other

‘Look he saw me, look.’

Obsession.

Dark obsession.

I stalk you and watch.

You warn me,

It turns to hate.

Yet I can’t stop, drawn in,

No matter how much I need to stay away

I can’t.

I found where you were,

I had to be there for you to see me

The thrill 

Inside my white mask of madness,

I burn inside,

But in my sad mind all was worth it,

I feed off you knowing I am there.

Here is a new poem for 2025. It’s connected into events in the world right now.

I Want to Invade Greenland

I want to invade Greenland.

Not for conquest.
Not for glory.

But for peace.

Because apparently
peace requires exile.

I’ll raise my flag of sleepless nights,
plant it deep in frostbitten soil,
far from whispers curling like smoke
from mouths that never carried truth—

only venom,
and the power to burn.

They called it justice,
wearing its mask
until no one questioned the face beneath.

Truth became optional.

Convenience mandatory.

How do they sleep?

Dreamless, perhaps.

While I fold and unfold my soul
at three in the morning,
trying to remember a day
that wasn’t painted
with accusations
I never commissioned.

Truth hangs like a coat
I’m forbidden to wear.

Do they laugh,

these architects of ruin,

over glasses of wine,
over another casual post,

while my name echoes
through courtrooms
and search engines?

My story
isn’t click-worthy.

My pain
has no sponsor.

But I will not beg.

I will not crumble.

I’ll learn the names
of every glacier,
every frozen silence,

and speak my innocence
until the ice itself
learns my voice.

Let them scoff.

Let them pretend.

I’ll make my home
among snow and northern light,

where nothing remembers me,

and nothing lies.

So yes—

I want to invade Greenland.

Because somewhere cold and clean

still feels untouched

by the rot

they tried

to write

into my skin.

Editorial Page 2026

Next up is a tribute to Dads who are there and stay.

Dad

“Too many cracks on the pavement to avoid them all,

What you have to do is avoid the lines,

childhood game.

But how do I avoid the holes,

Without you being there to guide me?

What do I do when I feel alone,

and the hole is all I have?

What do I do if all I touch is wrong.

That’s when I need my dad to be there?

Do you remember that night so long ago,

at a Winter’s Tale?

Or standing on the terraces,

Or having chocolate cake?

The last thing you ever said to me was

“I’ll fight…”

I’ll continue doing that dad,

until I get things right.”

Hush Little Baby… Don’t You Cry

On a cement block wall,
beneath a tree,
scattered bread
and crows
crying
for me.

At least
nobody sees.

The grass keeps growing.
Am I finished?
Is there only
the setting sun?

No.

There is more.

That cannot be
the whole story.

Rejected—
yet I have been loved.

Alone—
but only for now.

For in my head,
and on these pages,

romance still blooms,

fantasy still dances,

and stories

keep walking beside me.

Hush, little baby…

don’t you cry.

Bread

Does love become stale like bread?

Growing some mould around the crusts

When left alone, And not consumed?

Does love have a shelf life?

So that it is never really made to last?

When we’d tear the world apart for a bite

But then lose interest and throw away

Is the memory of love more interesting Than the actuality?

And does it matter if the other person feels the same?

Frozen and it lasts longer

The bread.

But love is different, More changeable

Perhaps to refind it It shouldn’t be frozen at all.

The next poem is called Sandman. We are messing around with the poetry page and freshening things up a bit generally, as we don’t want them to get tired! And a poem called Sandman has to be about getting tired.

Sandman

I couldn’t sleep last night.

A great clap of thunder
rolled over the house,

waking every dream,

where everyone was frightened,

even the mouse.

I tiptoed down the stairs
as lightning lit the hall.

Boots stood by the doorway,
cats watched from the wall.

The windows shook with every flash.
The silence wouldn’t stay.
I wondered if the storm itself
had lost its gentle way.

Is God up in the heavens
looking down in pain?
Can He hear us hurting
one another again?

Our poor world’s not at peace.
Too many hearts have strayed.
Sometimes even thunder
sounds like we’ve been weighed.

So bring on the Sandman.
Scatter sleep like sand.
Perhaps tomorrow’s sunlight
will help us understand.

The Could Have Bean.

The could have bean

Was always more of possibility

Of imagination and chance.

It could have been worse,

But could it?

Suppose they hadn’t lied?

Suppose I had said “let’s Go”

Suppose that beautiful baby

Had survived,

I mourn him inside me

Hold his hand sometimes as I walk,

I wish I had known him

That little baby

Could have bean.

Next up: Straight Lines.

It is about a lovely walk I took, I love wandering in the fields and woods! It is just one of those poems about nature really, but it also reflects on how I have battled through life and what it throws at you.

My friend Graham told me
to walk in straight lines.

After all,
who wishes to walk
in an endless square?

So today I walked
and praised the Roman times,

past yellow fields
of mustard seed and rue.

But there is deadly nightshade,
Belladonna,

that I will put aside
for you,
and you,
and you.

The raven sits
upon the scarecrow’s shaggy head,

bird of ill omen,
but friend to me and mine.

I carried him
upon a silver ring long ago,

a prophecy
from school days
of what was still to come.

One step in front of another,

one day at a time.

The road still stretches onward,
the horizon far away.

I walk ever onward
simply because I can.

No fence or gate to hold us,

the planet mine to stroll,

and the sun is yours
as much as mine.

No-one here
to take control.

I loved you absolutely,

and every day still have.

But life can spit upon us,

and too often has.

Fly (This one comes from an obvious love of Macbeth, it is also reflecting on those bastards who love to drag us down). Referencing this one, it is from the perspective of Macbeth just before his “Tomorrow and Tomorrow” speech.

Fly, false thanes,

and see how they run,

the moment they learn

the battle is done.

A knife in the back,

so it seems,

is always wielded

by one you called friend.

Abandoned.

In the darkness of the night,

where familiar faces vanish

beyond sight.

Puscillanimity hides

my thoughts of vengeance.

Perhaps that is wisdom.

Perhaps merely fear.

I refuse to write about the sun.

I curse the world

and what it has become.

A candle gutters in the darkness.

A light diminished.

I’ve just seen

how Shakespeare spins it.

You.

You

That room with a moment that’s trapped.

Nothing special about that space,
it’s true.

But please,
stop the clocks
and wrap up time.

Stop me now
in a loop
with that first look.

So amazing
as you entered the door.

Beauty,
like the softest taste of chocolate,

wrapped in a smile
and a box of delights.

I have to know you.

Just tell me your name.

I’ll write it down.

I’d tattoo it.

Insane.

Love in an instant.

I believe it was.

And no matter
how much water flows away,

I love you as much now

as I ever did

that day.

x

This one is called: The Cupboard.

Old Mother Hubbard,

you know her cupboard

where the poor little doggy had none?

Well, I’ve been locked up inside,

door locked,

mind fried,

deprived of my family and friends.

Yet inside my head

I’m always free,

a wonderful world

of mystery,

where carpets can fly

and those I love

are with me.

So in old Hubbard’s cupboard

I don’t need the key.

It’s only as dark

as my mind

allows it to be.