A poem written from the perspective of a woman enamored with Trump.
Letter to Joe Anderson The Futurist was loved but it was neglected so - acting in the knowledge that love isn’t concrete can’t strengthen walls or fix foundations left to crumble - you ripped it out. But I have to ask, do you look at Liverpool and see only bricks and water? Because it … Continue reading Poem – Letter to Joe Anderson
Beginnings and endings can make or break a short story. A bad opening line can lose a reader immediately, and a badly written ending can ruin an otherwise great piece.
'The bitterness lingers, nags at my palette/like a lump of words unspoken.'
I measure the road/ in distance you won't travel.
St Luke’s (When I was young, my nan, used to tell me ‘The church’ is the people, not the building.') Once each window was a work of art, every few feet a different story being told- parables pictured on stained glass, which, when the light shone through, blessed the aisles with colour. The building … Continue reading Poem – St Luke’s (Liverpool’s ‘Bombed out Church’)
'When you wake/to find your world/changed overnight/'
'...we wrote messages to God on paper leaves/'
What We Talk About When We Talk About Depression The Rising is my favourite Springsteen album. Born to Run is a close second – it’s more popular, for sure, and song for song Born to Run probably is better – there are so many memorable moments to lose yourself in, the enormous sound of ‘Thunder … Continue reading What We Talk About When We Talk About Depression
Lunch Poem Distinguished by layers of different dirt builders, electricians and road sweepers wearing high-vis jackets, sit together in the café. They drink Tesco’s own tea with Silver Spoon sugar, talk about Government and the score. A businesswoman orders a cappuccino but can’t pay by card. Time is a commodity and she’s spending it fumbling … Continue reading Lunch Poem
Those Kids Outside Nan and Granddad's house there was a patch of grass and a goal chalked onto the flank of the terraced houses where me and my brother played kickabout until chased away by neighbours who’d shout, 'Arl tell ye Nan on ye!' and ask if we couldn’t read the signs - white-on-black warnings … Continue reading Those Kids
Folie à Deux It was our place. Our secret world hidden in the trees. A world of dreams, where time seemed to stop for us where we could hide from judging eyes and feel free. We watched the real-world ripple on the breeze like it was another dimension drifting in and out of focus on … Continue reading Poem: Folie à Deux