Here are some edited, versions of poems written primarily for performance.
Written as spoken word pieces they are designed to evolve, be adapted, improvised around and to be honed over time. As such they may change when you hear me perform them live. that is kind of the point.
BE KIND
Here is a poem called ‘Be Kind’.
If you cannot begin to understand
if empathy is a foreign land
if you cannot grasp the outstretched hand
then just be kind
if you find yourself starting to judge
if you insist it's all done by the book
if you don't think all you need is love
then just be kind
if the need to denigrate
is always on your simple mind
and your seduced by those who hate
the chance to validate declined
then just be kind
if you slag someone off online
find arguments easy to find
if trolling takes up too much time
then just be kind
if you care for someone else
if you struggle with your mental health
take the time to be kind to yourself
just be kind
don't be happy being nice
or pretending you don't give advice
if someone asks be honest man
give that feedback and you will find
it's not always easy to be kind
but be kind anyway, stop and help
speak out and share the pain
you've felt
be kind
be kind
be kind
My Loving Bloody Valentine
No chocolates or card verse here, but because love is always worth celebrating and the challenge of looking at something so familiar and obvious, and crafting something meaningful and new, by looking through a different lens, and combining a classic, nature, music and magic was too great an opportunity to ignore, here is a valentine poem.
Reverse reverb drenched distorted shoe-gazing indie rock music, Sylvia Plath's 'The Bell Jar', witches transformed into Butterflies starting hurricanes, lipstick and the Devil moon freeing those trapped in the illusory safety of repetition and routine. My loving bloody valentine because love like life, is a messy, bloody, sweaty business.
You are the butterfly
that fluttered high
the azure allure of unshuttered sky
within the bell jar of my heart
no fragile cloche could hope to contain
a lepidopteran hurricane
the sheets of rain on arid plain
the thundering rolling downtown train
your beating wings did start
through all the lives I could have walked
in only one would I meet you
and when I did, begin to live
you were the witch who gave me wings
unlocked my golden chrysalis
my precious papillon valentine
for you forever
love entwined
my loving bloody valentine
to here
knows when
eternity
come back again
and set me free
you are the Devil moon
stole from the skies
i could live forever in your eyes
bathe me in insanity
and free me from dull gravity
my blood red moon, lunar eclipse
the taint that blushes both your lips
crimson, burgundy, vermilion
one chance to dance
one grain of sand within a million
my loving now lined valentine
it feels like standing near the edge
screw up my eyes
the world drops dead
i could live forever in this bed
you need not touch my chin
to lift my head
my silver flecked and well held valentine
you are still a sparkling bubbling stream
the white water, the air between
the flashing light of last nights dream
who lifted all my silly cautions
my stifling bell jars hot distortions
alpha omega
a love like cedar
my evergreen valentine
Hello Winter (Warming Brew)
Taking it’s initial inspiration from the idea of ‘Hygge’ this poem is about much more than cosiness and the comfort of being inside with a hot drink and open fire when it is cold and wet outside.
It is also about lost sounds and friends, summers gone and the winter festival rituals of families and the hazy sentimentality of a glug of whiskey in the month of Burns night.
The accompanying video performance has been recorded with binaural microphones, along with the field sounds that accompany it. Listening back on headphones will put you back into the same aural space and hopefully fill you with the same warm glow this open fire pulsed with.
Hands around the mug
whose heat embraces
all who sit
around
submit
to waves of warmth
the fire emits
inside that cosy feeling
tied
to memories
steamy, hazy
hand made blankets
crocheted patches
recollections
yarn that yearns
to be pulled tight
by cold numb fingers
in the night
held together
under over
weaving tribute
threads that spread
like dry
thatched truths
on saucer lays
a promised biscuit
fragmented pieces
like crumbling wishes
the cinnamon
that tingles
flickers on tongue tip
scented candles
stirring dreams
olfactory scenes
whose sharp pine notes
past family actors
act out
emote
wrap around
like heavy coats
that weigh us down
and keep us grounded
all together once a year
oh how we've not changed
just re-arranged
our jumbled lives
like unmatched socks
the pull of wool
sheep cold on moor
us all content
sheepskin rug
upon the floor
the steam from chocolate hot
the fire of whiskey
just a tot
the briefest flame
that warms you up
and then
the hands around that
hold you close
and gently hint
soft like butter
the crack of toast
the memories of past Decembers
now fluttering ashes
glowing embers
that pulse and fade
like ends of songs
in winters
that go on and on
the joy of being
safe from winds
that tear you hair
and whip your skin
annealed glass
now rattling
crittall windows
touched by
the silent hand
that moves low
like fog
cold as steel
across the land
Jack Frost
who has not etched
the flecks of gloss
not scraped with blade
single panes float
reflections fade
his crystal ferns
unfurling like
the fire that burns
they decorate
in twists and turns
in fronds opaque
intricate
fractal
tumbling shapes
the steam that rises
from wet clothes
the squelch of
muddy puddles
leaves
the soul of boots
that rise to heaven
the longest walk
the sky
that weeps
all over
tors and forest peaks
thrown over
mottled
liver spot ridden
compressed
and stormy
weathered
Devon
and drives us in
to shelter welcome
a kettle boiled
it's whistle gone
the sound
now robbed
along with others
we have missed
of hooves on cobbles
rag and bone
the landline ringing
hallway phone
the tick of clocks
now digitised
and all our lives
so sanitised
the hot tin baths
and babies laughs
and push me mowers
tearing grass
the summers gone
and we are all consigned
to weary sighs
the warmth inside
our hands around the mug
now empty
cold
it's tannin stains
like old friends
gone
their
faces fading
now revealed
dry lips part take
our fate is sealed
topped up again
like photographs
or snatches dreamt
a refilled bath
iridescence
that can't be grabbed
effervescent
crumbs of laughter
that blow across
the hallway
landing
reigniting
those cold embers
the draught
the breath
across those years
the warm
reminder
sea salt tears
the time to sit
and recollect
to reconnect
and
feel that gentle buzz
of warm contentment
a slug of love
so top me up
the Barley Bree
John BarleyCorn
Rabbie and Me
and once again
i will submit
to waves of
comfort
friends
effuse
and
wallow in
that
warming brew
Morrigan in her tower
After a recent trip to A and E, musings on mortality, Rooks, Ravens, Crows and the Irish Godess Morrigan. With a nod to the great Dylan Thomas' towering 'Under Milk Wood' , “slow, black, crowblack” a photograph I took on the northern coast of Ireland where my Nan was born, and a line from 'WHEN' an old lyric of mine that sums up the joy and terror of nothing ever being certain again, “one day my God just vaporised before my eyes”.
I hope it is not too depressing, as for me it made sense of a lot once down on paper and is quite cathartic to read in performance mode.
Be calm and quiet
my busy mind
but no...
for I'm afeared
that I might die
If one as troubled
stretched as I
should ever pause
for just one breath...
may be my last
as all the thoughts
like gathered stones
that have been smashed
collapse and pause
on top of me
on top of me
when light becomes
a white landslide
and brightness
washes over me
and darkness no longer deified
removes the blindfold
binding me
moved by strobing incertitude
and crippled by dubiety
never a breath or interlude
a knot in my sobriety
one day my God
just vaporised
before my eyes
lay down and died
and so I fill my busy mind
or all the time
is all the time
as second guesses
stitches of doubt
are unpicked by
a rapacious Raven
all that entails
now spilling out
fills up the empty
truth i bathe in
greedy , grasping
kronking beak
the beady eye
that watches me
from a pious branch
it occupies
a position of hard certainty
ridiculous
to grasp so hard
upon the knowledge
laden tree
doubt the condition
that plagues my vision
the emperor's clothes
that best suit me
throughout my life
through other eyes
Ravens on moor
on walls, roadsides
slow black Crow black
moon and tides
powered by the storm inside
surrounded now
by Moor and Sea
the dark that might just
swallow me
If I open up
from my exile
a tiny crack
an unforced smile
the crumbling façade
with no sustaining
whirlwind to mitigate
exposed charade
this page is framing
will slowly disintegrate
and the powdered bones
that were my home
my earthly throne
will blow away
will blow away
and dissipate
and so....
I gallop on
as thundering hooves
ring loud inside my head
they Shake and jar
my bones and skull
and fill my veins with dread
but I hang on
as bits fall off me
and live by wits
that truly cost me
for there is no
fevered manic, busy, life
that does not exact a hefty price
and still the coal black
crow black bird
the Raven
watches me
ebony feathered
hackles weathered
a beard
perched in a tree
the hungry Raven
sees through friends eyes
the not so common sense they share
they feast on
those who have met
grisly ends
untroubled by Voltaire
and it is me
the wilful
stupid me
who will not surrender
screaming at the oceans
snarling face
daring the waves
to crash
as between the rocks I dash
afraid if I should lower sails
that i will miss the rain and gales
come off the rails
and all against which I have railed
it is this momentum
and this madness
that picks up and carries me
the shroud of light
that shadows sadness
breaks the heavy chains of anxiety
and the watching
ancient Raven
I know that he is waiting
I will not calm
my busy mind
in this the witching hour
maybe the Raven watching me
is guarding me
protecting me
maybe that he, is really she
Morrigan in her tower
the filth, judge and jury
On the 1st of December 1976 Broadcaster William Grundy interviewed The Sex Pistols. Grundy proceeded to ambush them, setting himself up as both Judge and Jury for a scene he had no time for, and did not understand. Grundy even admitted later that he had set out "to prove that these louts were a foul-mouthed set of yobs. And that is what I did prove"
Steve Jones though was not the first person to say ‘F*ck’ on British TV. Irish Playwright Brendan Behan achieved the remarkable twin feat of being the first man seen under the influence on British television and the first person to say “F*ck” on the same show, during a live interview on BBC’s Panorama on June 18, 1956.
Brendan Behan got there first
the F word in a Panorama
the host himself
had made it worse
before the playwright
talked of drama
before Mclaren said no wages
if there's no Pistols on TV
never mind the b*ll*cks pundit
here's the rotten BBC
that other Malcolm... Muggeridge
bought Behan Scotch
at 'The Garrick Club'
he had no shoes,
his shirt messed up
four letter word from down the pub
that was back in 56
Behan was dead at 41
an Irish drinker
with writing problems
i’m sure that Borstal was 'No fun'
December the first, 1976
the Sex Pistols had replaced Queen
Bill Grundy called them
foul-mouthed Yobs
before the silver Jubilee
within a month
EMI had dropped them
the contract dead
they'd just begun
moral panic was the reason
(now they had a reason
now they had a reason)
unwanted Holiday in the Sun
regional TV was Pretty Vacant
punk rock presented as 'the new craze'
'ever get the feeling you've been cheated?'
here's 'Anarchy in the UK'
the clink of booze
the air turned blue
a moment of notoriety
the green room schmooze
broadcast the crude
the hosts boasts of lacking sobriety
not the squeaky clean Beatles
nor the nice Rolling Stones
they are both so clean by comparison
burning Punk Rockers with fire in their eyes
not 'Here Comes The Sun'
by George Harrison
my Sweet Lord
forty grand down the Pub
better start the Outrage Express
Bill said 'Come on kids'
then stoked up the fires
and the ire
of the tabloid press
are you being serious
or having a laugh?
the Daily Mirror
the Filth and the Fury
uproar and moans
as viewers jam phones
the Dailys are
both Judge and Jury
Mozart, Bach and Brahms are Brown bread
they're all heroes of ours
and Beethoven's Deaf
they're wonderful people
and they turn us all on
'really? but they are now all so far gone'
other's may like them
'Well that's just their tough sh*t'
good heavens you frighten me to death
What is your suggestion?
a Rude word. Next question
your playing games, I'm really impressed
this geezer Bill, like your Dad or Grandad
patronised like a lecherous hack
what about you girls, Enjoying yourself?
nineteen yr old Siouxsie
threw back
i always wanted to meet you
she said with a camp pout
'we'll meet afterwards shall we?'
said Bill
Thames 'TV Today'
was incredibly grey
meeting Grundy, was hardly a thrill
no one was plastered
53 and no looker
you dirty b*st*rd
you dirty f*cker
you dirty sod
you dirty old man
'say something outrageous'
that was your plan
they were so fresh
that's the real shocker
but TV's Bill Grundy?
what a f*cking rotter
HANDS
A POEM ABOUT HANDS
Hands
On which fingers dressed
With wedding bands
Undress
Caress
For better
For worse
For more or less
Trace the curves
On which you've slept
The breast
In which the secrets kept
Beats heavy
Hot
Beneath
The hair
That caught your breath
The lips
That kissed
Their way
To bliss
That opened yours
The tongue that slipped
It's way
Between
Intentions missed
A sea of caution set adrift
And hands
That land upon
Unexplored sands
The course it threads
Through Silken strands
Fingers untie
The best made plans
The fever dreams
The crazy schemes
That set us free
Gand aft aglee
Exercise in futility
The hands
In which we cradle
Soft demands
The tiny grasp
That grips your finger
The scent of milk
The sighs
Those searching eyes
that linger
The sucking beat
Against your chest
Those little feet
Very first steps
Holding
The hands
The heart
this babe in arms
commands
It beats anew
But tears off days
Weaned off dreaming
Spoon fed time
Till bread is held
And life is grasped
By hungry hands
That search
And grab
And poke and scratch
And touch
And hold
From shawl
To shelter
Hands that build
That sow
That harvest
Hunt and kill
That snap
That grind
That stroke and cup
That thread and heal
That tie and wrap
That tweak and tickle
punch and slap
That run through hair
That massage backs
That hold and squeeze
That pluck and strum
That flick and beat
on skin and drum
That speak in gestures
depress keys
That Write with pens
And set us free
Hands that play scissors
Paper and stone
That pat-a-cake rhymes
Until we've grown
Paint with brushes
Cut with knives
pumped stopped hearts
Back into life
Unfurl ropes and
Cast out lines
throw back the catch
That does not rhyme
Hands that rummage
Hands that find
Hand over heirlooms
Through our lives
Fasten that Jewellery
pin on hats
Hand over titles
Aristocrats
Horses measured
From floor to back
Four inch per hand
Hands that tic tac
Bookies share odds
While at the races
Hands Pat horses
Tie up laces
hands that conjure
and conceal
hands that model
what is real
hands that jazz
and hands that flap
hand over tickets
hands that clap
hands that feed
and hands that cook
that roll the dice
and pick cards up
hands that finalise a deal
funny handshakes
Hands that steal
hands that save
and unkind hands
hands with cards
that hand out bans
with heavy heart
and bloodied hands
hands that swear oaths on the stand
hands that plead
and hands that pray
hands that give it all away
fingers that stretch and search for holds
we all hang on
some till were old
we all must learn
when to let go
on palms they say
is our lives map
Under hands that swipe
The apps we tap
We scroll down days
And finger type
When dawn first breaks
The dead of night
The finger pointing
Sleight of hand
I'd understand
If they were banned
When we lie or sit
Or walk or stand
I'd much rather
be holding
Hands
The Joy Of Running Dogs
The Joy Of Running Dogs
The joy of running dogs
the happy skip of every trip
In rain or sun
on slick wet grass
across hot slabs
the run the walk
the stick and ball
the joy of running dogs
the dreams of running dogs
no need for papers
coffee or news
where they lay
is where they snooze
the happy snore
the snuffling twitch
the scent of leaves
the snap of twigs
the dreams of running dogs
Waiting
This is a poem written whilst waiting in a hospital as my wife had a minor outpatient operation. Having spent some time myself as a patient recently I absolutely understand why such waits are inevitable in a fantastic but strained NHS.
Click on ‘Read More’ to read the poem
So here we go
another hospital
more waiting
then a little chat
it was
impossible
so back we come
to try a new approach
sitting on
the same old seat
discomfort
never broached
waiting, waiting, waiting
can be infuriating
overthinking never blinking
I should be meditating
long corridors
and vinyl floors
no skirting boards
sealed up the walls
still
waiting,waiting, waiting
sit then fidget
stretch my legs
tuck them away
from hurried beds
on wheels
the patients
wheeled like trams
or adult babies in their prams
scratch my elbows
swing knees that fold
tap patella beats
click hammer toes
pinch my ear and
scratch my nose
wait, sit, wait
at least we were not late
routine procedure
unlike a seizure
it's the randomness
I hate
waiting, waiting, waiting
not quite excruciating
the patient patient
consciousness latent
while I'm anticipating
surgery, clinic, casualty
vaccinations,
like pulling teeth
the queues the wait
the sitting down
at least I'm not in the blue gown
impatient at the outpatients
and sorely tried by triage
I thought 'she's here'
but it's not clear
turns out to be a mirage
waiting,waiting,waiting
it's the not knowing
that I'm hating
I grind my teeth in disbelief
the other waiters
find this grating
soon this will pass
like kidney stones
and we will both
be going home
biscuits for her
but not for me
for both of us
a cup of tea
this waiting room
this purgatory
hope springs eternal
leaks for me
ah
I have not been forsaken
here is the end of waiting
NITS, NITS, NITS
If you are a parent, a nursery worker, school teacher or pediatric nurse then you will be familiar with the unspoken Hammer House of Horror that is a plague of nit laying headlice.
Nobody talks about it as though it were somehow connected to bad personal hygiene or a dirty and untidy house. Go through the poem with a fine comb and see if you can spot the Bauhaus lyric and get through the entire thing without scratching your head.
Click ‘Read More’ to read the poem
Nits
Nits
Nits
I hate the little gits
they invade your house
the dirty louse
like a plague that never quits
Lice
Lice
Lice
they're not very nice
combs and Potions
nit killing lotions
fingernails that splice
another annoying
infestation
I wish on them insect cremation
drag them and eggs out
with a comb
stop the insects taking hold
round up the kids
wash their heads
comb out the dead
the tiny eggs
wash the bedding
5000 degrees
hell on earth
for louse and fleas
they become nymphs
just after hatching
then suck your blood
and we start scratching
blood sucking insects
that spit on your head?
of course I want
the biters dead
countless Draculas
and Nosferatu
the tiny vampires
that feast upon you
a six legged
Christopher Lee
the victims have been bled
until your whole house
is Oldman free
Bela Legosi is not dead
decapitate
stake through the heart
garlic drops
before you start
you can live in a mansion
or social housing
you still need chemical
Van Helsing
a nurse , a chef,
barber and teacher
another role
your job will feature
parental duties
pest control
it never ends
destroys your soul
and so to cope
you will soon learn
straighteners make
the parasites burn
still they return
back from the dead
to climb and feed
off every head
Lice
Nits
Lice
you will have then more than twice
unless you shave
your kids hair off
and that's not very nice
itchy creatures
contagious, catching
just mention them
and we start scratching
but they cannot fly
carry disease
they can only crawl
not jump like fleas
I will leave you with one thought
as you stop and scratch your heads
did one just crawl onto your scalp
or can an idea grow six legs?
The Rainbow Road Not Taken
I make no apologies for interpolating Ellen Glasgow’s ‘The Freeman’ (1902), William Wordsworth’s ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’ (1807) and The Beatles ‘In my life’ (1965) all within a poem about the emotional resonance of characters and worlds created within computer games.
While John Lennon was clearly thinking of lost friends like Stuart Sutcliffe and Wordsworth was musing on the ability of nature to inspire humanity, I am inspired by the ability of stories about humanity (even within non-human protagonists) inside videogame worlds to elicit as much, if not more visceral and emotional responses as great cinema or literature can. There are now friends I am sad to say, that I have spent many joyous hours with, sat around a console, for whom it has now been game over for many years.
Like Glasgow’s hero, Half-Life’s Gordon Freeman, Mafia 3’s Lincoln Clay and Mario himself, are all towering examples of people unwilling to accept bondage and limitations, or to know their place, confronting their oppressors and determined to bring justice to bear.
In Robert Frosts 1916 ‘The Road not taken’ a fairytale decision is mused upon with about as much solemnity as that felt by people of my age when playing an Ian Livingstone ‘Choose your own adventure’ book. Frost himself said “I am never more serious than when I am joking”
Some people think games are simply about a digital characters life and death. I can assure you it is much more important than that.
Click ‘Read More’ to read the poem
Oft when on my couch I lie
In console playing mood
Their worlds they fill my inward eye
The bliss of gaming solitude
I wandered on Lakitu's cloud
that floats on bytes o-er pipes and hills
when all at once I saw fire flowers
piranha plants and shrooms like pills
Climbed ladders playing Chuckie Egg
telepathy had become real
Into a 16 year olds head
Programmers inner worlds revealed
Zx Spectrum Bitmap colour
Just one bit per pixel
Type LOAD " " , start tape
8-Bit landscape
simple adventures, blissful
the sound of Data
one low, nought high
those crazy flashing lines
Manic Miner, Chequered Flag
School Daze, the best of times
In the arcade cabinet i have sat
and zoomed through vector graphics
blew up Death Stars, lassoed At-Ats
And flew to other planets
In Another World, a world of blue
There were no words
No internet
In Ico, I spent weeks in towers
The nostalgia of the infinite
My heart still aches for Yorda
and the abandoned boy
I climbed and rode 16 Colossi
raised Wander's sword, and jumped for joy
I took my part in the Bards tale
and walked through Baldur's Gate
fought enemies in dark dungeons
and smashed a million crates
I've cruised in boats and starships too
through open worlds and galaxies
found trading routes within Elite
set sail with Link on the great sea
I jumped through time in Time Splitters
played as Kings, and Orcs, and Cats
fought countless wars, with guns and swords
with only tea spilled, on mouse mats
first person Shooters, RPGS,
action, Adventure , Sports
epic sprawling massive campaigns
cute independent shorts
a POW Escape from deep within,
an ancient German castle
first in 2D and then in 3
Those Nazis were all assholes
Fergus ,Wyatt, Hendrix, and Tesla
the different paths in Wolfenstein
alternate realities that test ya
your destiny, your own timeline
I dream of streets in New Orleans
that I have walked with Lincoln Clay
raised hell for weeks in lost Heaven
and lost whole days in Empire Bay
I've been James Bond in GoldenEye
also the mud skipper, James Pond
I stormed Normandy 2003
the very first and finest C.O.D
Black Mesa Cave, hope is a slave,
and Gordon is a freeman
Half- Life decay
VR today
held captive by the G-Man
W,A,S and ,D
have long moved characters for me
The Last Of Us and poor Max Payne
now lost in time, like tears in rain
I 've seen things you people would not believe
attack ships on fire, a pink playstation
I grew up with people who set us free
open world procedural generation
some seem to get their downtime thrills
by dancing with the daffodils
but I'll take worlds, fantastic worlds
and things I can control
when things are bad and I am sad
I'll be consoled by my console
For worlds created are no less
real than the one we walk through
less traveled yes, there is no best
choose who you want to talk to
roads may diverge switch back and merge
fact and fiction promote growth
we pass through this yellow wood but once
so why not travel both?
our lives are randomly switched on
new levels every year
we bounce like pixels within pong
the final boss, now holds no fear
These are places I remember all my life,
from different games
some are in my dreams forever
some uninstalled and some are saved
all these games they had their moments
alone and with friends, I've played them all
in some I'm stuck and some are finished
in my life I loved them all
Under the wave
“You can see it everywhere”.
In just six years time Katsushika Hokusai’s spectacular swell will have loomed large over Japanese art for 200 years. It is the most mass produced image in art history and so predictably has been dismissed by many inside and out of art criticism, as though it’s accessibility and enduring appeal were somehow inverse indicators of it’s significance.
Love it or hate it, it is not going anywhere soon and so here are some words on what it means to me
Click ‘Read More’ to read the poem
or head on over to the video page to watch
You can see it everywhere, it broke off Kanagawa
in museums, shops and galleries
on the curtain for your shower
on your phone-case or your wallpaper
in LA , Tokyo and London
a hand carved print of wet brush strokes
we drown in it's abundance
below white foam the Prussian blue
the contrast is effective
for this sea-based Mount Fuji View
pre-selected, fixed perspective
commissioned by the VOC
Katsushika painted scenes
Japan suffered for their sanity
oh how he tried to set them free
years later Van Gogh painted night
in an asylum filled with fear
'these waves are claws, the boat is caught'
it seems you had his ear
though it is clearly now ubiquitous
a never ending fountain
like a perfect curve for Sisyphus
to rick roll his rock back up the mountain
but what's remarkable, extraordinary
and really quite astonishing
for all the high brow curt dismissal
and the art critics admonishing
is the fact that is exists at all
yes,the sea can be quite frightening
not just struck with inspiration
at 50, Hokusai was struck by lightening
brushed with a stroke when in his sixties,
just like the waves that move the sand
he had to learn to paint again
the sleeve erasing was not planned
a striking image that sticks out, for a four Island nation
he painted it at 70, 18 years before his expiration
none braver, than the fisherman
his hair dried out, his skin, rope burned
he rides the wind, stares down the sun,
a lesson in resilience learned
just persevere, cast out the fear,
live now, embrace the motion
live each moment at a time
through life's turbulent deep ocean
life flows like sand, between our fingers
yet hands still grasp, right to the end
grief like the taste of salt, it lingers
a seasoned end for a dear friend
the unthinkable that stumps the thinkers
the carver first removes the wood
here's to the the artists , poets, drinkers
the printer inks the block like blood
the patterns made repeat themselves
woodblock made prints, the artists hand
like spines of books upon a shelf
sacred landscape, the working man
like lives arising from the sea, returning to humanity
that arc, that crest, our worst and best
under the wave is Mount Fuji
for though like fishermen and Sisyphus
our lives may seem absurd
our search for meaning is futile
our prayers are never heard
an ever changing great wave caught
as it comes crashing down
the struggle itself is enough
the mountain never drowns
Two tone at home
For somebody like me growing up and starting to buy records in the late 70s and early 1980’s it is impossible to overstate the importance of the Two Tone Ska Revival here in the UK. The cultural, political and social impact was matched by a personal affinity to a music that felt like our own.
It did not condescend or preach to you. It had that sense of mischief of being on the edge. Even as a preteen it could make you dance and smile and feel the kinship and solidarity that belonging to your own tribe brings you.
Nearly half a century later.
That has never gone away.
Click on ‘Read More’ to read the poem
Mento, Calypso and all that Jazz
blew in on a Jamaican breeze
rhythm and blues , and snares that crack
and hips that sway, chords like palm trees
the walking baseline stepped ashore
in Windrush Brogues so patent bright
black heels clicking, on two and four
one white socked foot lifted each night
the corkscrewed hips, the crawl and twist
the punch, the bass, the upbeat bliss,
the offbeat riddims, guitars that glisten
shimmer upstroke ,breathe and listen
then a later generation
moved by that rock steady beat
syncopated dislocation
the Midland maestro's from the street
the English Beat moved more than feet
and Coventry was Special too
Saxa bridging Orange Street
new wave revival, and Punk 'F*ck you'
made to heal tears, soul inflection
full stop ranking beat creation
staccato Stiff and Two Tone at home
British Ska that moved a nation
gangsters never trashed Hotel rooms
wha'happen dancing Jabsco did
three minutes heroes The Selector
too much pressure under the lid
the only invaders were North London
became the Camden Nutty Boys
brethren of the Prince were invited
racist toddlers threw out their toys
we harassed our mothers for Doc Martins
14 holers if we dared
black Harrington's with tartan lining
ad drainpipe jeans, trousers not flared
buzz-cut, ch ch, braces too, Skinhead style not BNP,
tabloid rubbish all the while
Bad Manners Margate by the sea
Jerry,Terry,Gaps and Pauline,
chequerboard that we adored
Yes and flares and Mud and Wombles
all the things that we abhorred
too young for Punk, but liked the naughty,
the Madness then was Absolute
rebels at playtime, ties as peanuts
beaten with canes and kicked with boots
the energy was so infectious,
the dancehall skanking had us hooked
other tribes could not deflect us
too cool for school was how we looked
and still Ska makes me feel alive,
a running man, two stepping madly
a child transported out of time
a Grandad dancing very badly
so thank you Rhoda, Roger, Doug
your body snatching, toasting tongue
Monsieur Barso, El Thommo, Suggs
by now I'm sure it must be love
©ThePoetBeanz.com 2025
Synths and cats
There is a venn diagram somewhere in which synthesisers and cats overlap. If you are a cat owning synth player then this is for you.
I have always had a cat (though not presently) and many synths. They do not always mix. Synth key beds are already fluff and dust magnets even without the cute furry Gods trampling all over them.
When they do walk across though it is very funny and I have spent many an hour programming patches or equing mixes etc with a cat either on my lap or somewhere else in the studio.
I created some of the images used in the video for this poem with AI and some with composites. AI curiously can create great cats in all their model and manufactured varieties but is pretty useless when it comes to all the different breeds of synths.
Click ‘Watch the Video’ to watch and listen
or click ‘Read More’ to read the poem
Moggies on moogs
Kitties on Korgs
Scratching claws across sliders
Paws on keyboards
TB 303s tabbies
Raving it up
British Short Hairs
On Behringers
Tweaking Res and cutt off
Playing M1s and Oberheims
Squelching and growling
Siamese on Sequential Circuits
Yamaha's yowling
Rexs from Cornwall
and rexs from Devon
Tinkling E Pianos
Sat atop DX7s
Pussies on Prophets
Gingers on Jen's
Cs80 Maine Coons
Tom Cats on Pitch bends
Clavia Nord
Roland and Novation
Ensoniq, Kawaii quacking
Catty clicking notation
In 1981
Dave Smith gave us MIDI
Near eastern wildcat
Prophet of polyphony
Now felis catus
Are all over the world
Splaying out over keybeds
Like cables unfurled
Stretching Abyssinians
Playing Jean Meaow Jarre
Bengal Brian Enos
Sphinxs beeping Vince Clarke
Random riffs from Black Cats
Sound just like Depeche Mode
Burmese cats switch on Bach
For Wendy Carlos at home
Clockwork Orange tom Tron
Eerie Circona The Shining
Transforming metamorphosis
With what she was designing
Feline frequency mod
Gorgio Moroder
Vangelis, Kraftwerk
Cats tweaking controllers
Hissing feral white noise
Lovely Purring sustain
Fluffy Persian resonance
Manx cut off decay
Teeth like a saw tooth
Arched triangle back
Cat on a hot tin roof
Square wave step down racks
Stalk like a sine wave
Oscillating warm purr
Additive synthipuss
Harmonics with fur
Cleaning faces with paws
ADSR tweaking
Felines and Fairlights
Cats chirping and speaking
In league with nerd Humans
Walk on flats and sharps
Cacophonous Orchestral
Manouvers in the Dark
I love cats and synths
So diverse and eclectic
A tiny mewman tubeway army
Our feline friends electric
Something to stroke
Whilst sat in your lap
A producer like Kate
Even moved like a cat
A bird in the hand
Is worth two in the bush
can't resist new synths
Geddy bass pedal Rush
Like the nonplussed look
At a bowl full of food
Even if I can't move
For all the synths in the room
I am about as likely
To keep synth free pledges
As cats are to give up
Batting objects off edges
But where would we be without cats
Without synths
Like a dance with no discos
And statues without plinths
Imagine a world
without ribbons and knobs
No tangerine dreams
No cute furry gods
With fluff in the keyboard
Paw prints on the keys
My mate once had a synth
That was Jumping with Fleas
It's a small price to pay
For a lifetime of love
One without the other?
Just can't get enough
© The Pet Beanz 2025
POEMS TO COME
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TWIT
The idea for TWIT occurred to me whilst having to absorb yet another episode of Fireman Sam which my youngest (who was about two years old at the time) was obsessed with. It features a character called 'Norman Price' who could test the patience of saints.
Most of the fires in Ponty Pandy can be traced back to Norman. I usually perform the main body of the poem in an approximation of his whiny annoying voice. (Somebody recently asked me 'why the Alexi Sayle voice?' which I was quietly pleased about.)
Obviously the whole poem is inspired by John Copper Clarke's TW*T and my even worse approximation of his voice bookends the live performances of TWIT. There is no lifting of lines though. No complete lines from the original, only the spirit in tribute I hope to a legend. The challenge lay in trying to keep it both profanity free but acerbic and I hope fun. I love to perform it.
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THE FILTH JUDGE AND JURY
On the 1st of December 1976 Broadcaster William Grundy interviewed The Sex Pistols. Grundy proceded to ambush them, setting himself up as both Judge and Jury for a scene he had no time for, and did not understand. Grundy even admitted later that he had set out "to prove that these louts were a foul-mouthed set of yobs. And that is what I did prove"
Steve Jones though was not the first person to say ‘F*ck’ on British TV. Irish Playwright Brendan Behan achieved the remarkable twin feat of being the first man seen under the influence on British television and the first person to say “F*ck” on the same show, during a live interview on BBC’s Panorama on June 18, 1956.
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IT POISONS EVERYTHING
I am not sure if I am an anti-theist rather than just an atheist, but there are times when looking at the irrational , ignorant, tribal divisive violence religion still seems to inspire, that make me quite sure I am much more aligned with such a position than the ‘edging my bets style’ of agnosticism that I adopted in my late teens after a horrendous childhood in a Christian cult.
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AND THE NIGHT
This is one of my oldest poems written at a time when walking at night was both a meditative and necessary act. It is as much about the auditory landscape as the visual and of course is a metaphor for the end of our own short time on this planet. The photograph is my own and part of a long scale project about cities after dark.
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M.I.C
On the 5th September 1981 a group of Welsh women, a group called ‘Women for Life on Earth’ arrived outside RAF Greenham Common to protest the Governments plans to site American Nuclear Cruise Missiles there and changed history.
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EAT YOUR GREENS
This is the poem with which I open most after hours sets. It is an opportunity to pay tribute to poets past and present on the screen behind me and loosen up those vocal chords. Will it work out of context and written down as text? I am not sure but you can decide yourself when it arrives here.
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Clothed in Garments Soft
The joys and challenges of fostering when you are neuro divergent.
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I HID MY PLANS ON POST-IT NOTES
Daydreaming at work when you are in a factory, warehouse, building site or office repeating mundane mind numbing tasks is something most of us have done. This is a poem about never giving up on your dreams. Your never too old ...even at 50.
If you are In a cult,religion,marriage,job,contract,band and you don't want to be you can always put on women’s clothes and do the hoovering.
Do you ever feel like Indiana Jones with a giant bolder behind you or that you are stuck in a trash compactor like Luke, Princess Leia, Chewy and Han solo in Star Wars?Be like Steve McQueen.
It's never too late
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TREES (You are the Bees Knees)
A poem about Trees.
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Know a city by it's people
An ode to Plymouth through the sculptures and statues on her streets. Monuments, artefacts and plaques that pay tribute to citizens, visitors, moments and events that have helped shaped the city.
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HANDS
A poem about hands
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Boots and Cats and Council Flats
Beauty within Brutalism and the urban on walks within my home city built the shapes and sounds within this poem
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Those were the Greys my friend
What would you do if Aliens visited you? What would you ask them? How do you rhyme extra terrestrial? Why was Mary Hopkins the first release on the Beatles Apple label?
