A Lifetime In Verse

This poem invites the reader to reflect on both the beauty of nature and the value of extending welcome and understanding to others. The poem is a metaphor for the plight of refugees. I listen to your simple five-note refrain, and admire your grey, white-collared beauty, so finely brushed with shades of pink and green, and watch you weave your wings in proud display; I wonder, is this the end of your weary flight? Some, I know, describe your kind as vermin, who only seek to poach our hard-won crops, but I would have them try to understand what mocking trials you have overcome to reach this blessèd garden, so far from home. For you are not a migratory sort, and would stay at home had grim fate allowed, yet happenstance has brought you to this bough; so I should not deny you a place to stay, but learn from you instead, and you from me. Now let the watching hen assess your worth, and the cooing sound of her soft cries echo in reply to your fluttered wings' display— the proclaiming pa...

I would try to paint this pouring rain that falls From pillared clouds with such a calming touch, Where silver raindrops gild the slate-grey seas With mosaics of ripples and scattered light. These veiled and brimming clouds cascade with life, Each raindrop’s sensual touch is like a kiss, Just one brief moment of simple beauty When like lovers, the sea and sky conjoin. But, the timeless painting cannot convey How that beauty changes, drop by sparkled drop, Or how the passing squalls and rippling rain, Inscribe my soul upon the restless sea.

This narrative poem is an abridged version of my autobiographical short story ‘The Cartel’. Names, details and dates have been changed or omitted altogether to deliberately obscure some of the facts. Readers who want the full and extraordinary story may apply for a copy of ‘The Cartel’. In warm, business school classrooms where they’re safe, with time to spare, worthy professors teach ‘ethics’ to budding professionals, where they debate the rights and wrongs of the nuanced and shadowed decisions that others have had to make. Oh, the theory sounds simple, I know, as easy as reading a balance sheet, or even a profit and loss, and perhaps for some it is that simple—but I’ve not found it is; so before you opine about ethics, hear my tale— and tell me, honestly, how you would behave. We aimed to make our profits for the year, by racing our ships laden with fruit, from Ecuador tearing across the Atlantic to Russia in the dark winter months, before the winter's ice thawed, and our freig...

Listen to: I am a Poet! I pummel his hairless shoulder with my dainty front paws, left then right, again and again, but not too hard—not tonight. I draw my whiskers lightly back and forth across his big fat nose and lips, this way, then that, and back, I press my face close to his—and yawn. He doesn’t stir at the huff of my breath under his nose; in that instant I leap from the bed, land on my paws with a ‘beep’, and hurtle downstairs. With barely a paws or a glance, I jump on his desk, and sit with my fluffy striped tail, all comfy, curled about my bottom, in front of the big square thing. I slide my paw on the smooth little pad, as I’ve watched him do so many times before— and everything bursts into light! I pummel the clicky thing with my feather-light paws left then right, again and again, I am a poet!

Listen to: The Rule Wearing underpants is strictly forbidden, and whenever we change  for football or rugby, we oblige him and prove our compliance  with the rule. Before leaving the changing room, we form a line abreast, like Spartans, chattering and shoving,  jostling, keen to be gone. Each of us, pulling forward  the elastic waistband  of our shorts, ready to prove our compliance with the rule. He peers in my shorts, as if searching for lice, and closely examines  the boy  inside, and confirms my compliance  with the rule. But he never touches me, not like that, So… that’s OK then—isn’t it?

 Listen to: The Way Things Are He is smiling and brimming triumphantly, proud of the deal he's struck with the chandler, ‘I can’t often beat the chandler at haggling,’ he crows, over the pile of fish at his feet that he’s bought for pennies in the pound. Gleefully, he shows me the snapper, the carcass of muscular steel-blue tuna, and the mottled browns and olives of the grouper. Each fish thick with a frost of fine frozen crystals, clinging to their scales and gills, and their empty glazed eyes, each mouth agape, frozen in the act of eating. ‘I will not eat it—nor, I suspect, will the crew.’ The full horror of his gloating dawns on him like daylight, over the archipelago. His words catch in his mouth, stutter, and fail to form. He blinks, his eyes searching upwards, for reason in the corners of his mind. The exhilaration of his deal turns to disbelief, and realisation settles as a shadow on his face. ‘Fuck…’ The fish were caught from the waters east of Mindoro, and will have fed o...

Listen to: Always Read The Label Poetry may be hazardous to children and adults. ALWAYS KEEP WITHIN REACH OF YOUNG CHILDREN, and small animals. Common Side Effects. Poetry is known to cause reactions, including: Raised heartbeat, Emotional turmoil and, Thoughts of love and loss, Critical thinking and the formulation of opinions, Thoughts about people other than self. Other Less Common Side Effects. In some cases poetry may: Cause hallucinations, or Represent a threat to political authority. If affected: Immediately expose the victim to a wider range of poems and poets. If the eyes are affected: Rinse any tears and blow the nose gently, Continue rinsing and blowing as required. Apply tea and biscuits to the affected persons, Immediately call a bookshop for further advice. If you are pregnant or trying to become pregnant:  Read more poetry.  In all cases: Remove the victim to fresh air, and keep at rest in a comfortable position for reading and breathing.

This poem invites the reader to join the narrator on a general cargo ship loading a full cargo of tea and talcum on her final voyage. The advent of containerisation in the 70s was quickly sweeping away the old types of ship and the traditional ways of carrying cargo. Listen to: The Last Days of the Old Ways Come and join me in the last days of the old ways at sea, as we steam in the arid heat and burning light from Bombay to Kandla, by way of the shallow Gulf of Kutch. From our eyrie on the ship’s bridge, see how the gulf’s horizon glimmers in the heat, tantalising us with some distant range of hills in Gujarat, drawn so close to us by nature's subtle trick of bending light. We’ll soon load our northbound cargo, full and complete for Avonmouth, of talcum in gunny and paper sacks, and fine loose tea, from Assam in cases. Look down on deck now, as our sailors clean the ship’s empty holds, of the dirt and debris from Aqaba, Jeddah, Port Sudan, Djibouti and Aden, of anything that might...

I often visit the Merchant Navy memorial at Tower Hill and have written this free verse poem to commemorate all the merchant seamen who lost their lives in the service of this country. Listen to: At Tower Hill If you need to ask who or what we were, stand here at Tower Hill and read the names, of merchant seamen with no grave but the sea, and walk with me—I’ll show you how we died. So come and take this heavy woollen duffle that's worn and patched and draggled with damp, and tie my old frayed scarf about your neck, pull low your cap, and mind the bitter cold. Stand beside me at the main deck coamings, and see our general cargo stowed below; this is why we’re hunted by the wolf-packs, and must endure the fear that haunts the prey. Bales of cotton and wool are stowed in the wings, crates of bullion, gold for the Bank, tinned food, vehicles, spares and engine parts, And tons of munitions fill the hatch squares. When we're at sea and day is turned to night, and the dark's compl...

Listen to: Let me buy you a beer... Let me buy you a beer and I'll tell you about it, Oh, I could have happily poisoned the blasted Chief Engineer, and although I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t, it's possible I did, and I didn’t really care. In the tortuous heat of the Yemeni summer, I was glad to leave the sun-baked deck where the ship’s searing hot steelwork burned my skin at the slightest touch. I headed to the ‘tween decks and the musty stink of the lower hold to check that the cargo for Aden, from London and Bremen, was all put ashore. I climbed past the patty piles of steaming human shit, dumped at the manholes by the stevedores to stop us climbing down, so they could filch the cargo without being seen, and I gagged at the flies and maggots, swarming so close to my face. I watched the last few crates of cargo swayed aloft in nets from the deep lower hold to the dodgy-looking barges moored alongside, when I found three plastic bags, full of drugs, stashed in the shadows o...