Secret Squirrels

A few from this latest collection at time of writing – completed September 2019.

Safe Haven Pie

The streets are hiding from me.
My feet are tired of running after them.
The most well-known places have moved
Or is it –
I’m hiding cos they’re counting to ten?

Every turning
is a turn-up for the books.
It looks like I’m lost
unless the signs are giving me strange looks.

The arrows point to words
when you’re jotting things down in a forest.
The pheasant, duck, goose pie in the pub
was very tasty with mash,
And the two pints did the rest.

Body Barges and Soul

The barges are made of ten quid notes

Floating on the market.

The feathered cranes loom over the boats

And people walk past people they could have met.

If my soul doesn’t make it, I know my body will.

Photo Without You

cut me out
what would I be?
a pun with linguistic skills
up a secret darkroom hide-out tree?

cut you out
and you’ll see
without someone like you in a photo
is like not having an eye for photography.

Mirror Reflection

I was wondering about me the other day

And it got me to thinking;

What am I doing these days?

It’s been so long since I saw him.

So, I got out all the old photos.

And there I was.

And I chose the best ones

And ignored the ones I didn’t like, just because.

I’d love to hear from me again.

Talk the toss about way back when.

But thought; Best leave it to posterity.

Bet he never thinks about me.


Garden birds are dying out. So, get out while you can.

Because, one day, wood pigeons and the like will be gone.

Those mornings when you woke up to a dawn chorus.

Those small hours when you rolled home flapping and dying of thirst.

You live for poetry and music and art

but you can’t rhyme or sing or paint for toffee.

It hardly crosses my mind how long we’ve been apart

but there’s hardly a day when I don’t think about you and me.

So, this is the message of this poem or song or painting.

Know you’re going to die when the birds won’t sing.

Make the most of a nightingale or sparrow or thrush.

‘Cos once they’re gone, there’s a dark silent rush.

%d bloggers like this: