Monday, 16 October 2017

On the coast bus to Mumbles


The scream-spit sea in churning,
draws the pelted horizon down,  
and feral spumes the bus. 
   Not unlike the wind leaf scarf,
drawn around yon autumn girl, 
lonely and staring phone-ward,
on the storm-plough battling bus.
    Tight lipped in lipstick, period red,
face as pale as the white horse manes.
Until the sun comes a-sliding,
a lemonade of swallowed tears.
  Then “ding”, and trance-like,
she is off the bus, soon lost to us,
as we plod on and on.

Rebel 17 - 70 Rebel


Am I too old to be a rebel?
To be rebel without a cause?
We were back then of course.
We lived it, didn’t we?
Go back, now, without a pause,
and see how the rebel has been labelled;
see, they have given a label to his cause.
So, I guess, I am too old to be a rebel,
unless, unless, unless ...

I am! For today I have a cause,
(he bequeathed to me that cause).
And because that cause
arrived without a label,
(and label me too old to care),
then I am a rebel, aren’t I?
I did care
that I didn't care.
So there!

Sunday, 15 October 2017


Autumn deceive not!
Take off that rouge, that pretty skirt of leaves.
Bite with spite, in the winter white,
snarl and gnarl, down to the bone.

Monday, 9 October 2017

Monumental folly


And why are the graves so big or so small?
Angels pointing skyward with no hands at all.
Or standing rock-fast on feet with no toes,
in the crypt mists of autumn, dew drop nose.

And there lies a rusty chain carrying a ball,
pointed like a mace but with no face at all.
And angels, with frost-broken wings do yearn,
over slumped headstones, all golden embossed.
But see, there, a desiccated urn,
on a pauper grave, wooden and crossed.

And why are the gates locked on family mausoleums,
where their effigies in stone lie silently bedded?
And why is there a sculpted anchor with chain,
rocks and ropes, the white horse’s mane?
Set squares and dividers, here all the trades be.
But why on earth, should this matter to me?

Glossy marble phalluses, and angular obelisks are
lording it over lichen engraved and fading headstones,   
where, long ago, with dry tears was written,
the name of a child in infancy smitten,
or tell of the sad soldier who fell in the war,
or how husband and wife did pass hand in hand,
looking for their home in the promised land.

And why are the graves piled up so high?
Four and twenty black bones lie in a pie.
Too many for comfort at the closing gate bell.
To be in heaven is heaven,
but to be buried is hell.
So why remembrance in such a grand way?
To impress the ones left behind who surely will say ...
Why are the graves so big and so small?
Grandeur for some, for others, nothing at all!

Today, when on and on the grim strimmer grazes,
betwixt the grave grasses, splattering green blazers,
worn by headstone cricketers, long-shadowed and fielding,
or at the crease standing, just one last innings? 

With dusk comes the bone fox
trotting foxily home,
studiously ignoring,
until, when everything’s still,

crumbles the day,
in the twilight of gods.
Goodbye anon sleeper,
so tight in your box,
under your monuments,
be they big, tiny or small.

And reader remember,
what the tombstones say.
Death the dead leveler
is coming your way.

Sunday, 8 October 2017


Poet at sunset,
avid reader of the dawn.
Our pages are numbered.


A wormhole in Wales?

R S and Dylan Thomas.

The vortex of words.

Friday, 6 October 2017

No way back


The dirt-cheap tears of nostalgia,
cannot halt two hearts in flight.
They go forward or they crash.
As we did that remember night.

Cannot jump with sodden parachutes,
wrung of my tears, your tears.
Or fall back, or fall back,
down all the years, the years.

For the dirt-cheap tears of nostalgia,
indulgent in first-love-locked eyes,
are, unfortunately, a one-way ticket,
for what never dies, has died.

Thursday, 5 October 2017

The ghost of an idea

Prostrate on the ice sea of Ganymede,
something stirring deep beneath.
Aching, my clawing fingers bleed,
cut upon a sliver of that buried wreath.

That florid-berried grief of a mind dead-
sure that something must be said.
That something is pulsating at the core,
under an opalescent denial, indeed deplored.

There is an hypnotic, swaying cobra head,
quick of fang and venom - antidote?
Drill below the feelings of dread.
Drill through lifetimes of rote.

Drag the problem into a poem.
Address the topic, always there.
Pour your heart, at long last free
to roam, where

the sea of Ganymede is split asunder,
and, with flowers in our hair,
we blend and spin the essence,
of our embrace, with thoughts our fare.

Torpid of words, upon a sunlit bed,
in trance and upward glance,
submit to the cosmic happenstance,
of an: I see! Finally of its ambiguity bled.

Monday, 2 October 2017

Haiku Eye

I have just launched a new blog for Haiku poetry (3 line poems) along with an image for each poem.

Sunday, 1 October 2017


Deep my corpuscles,

bleeding regret, aching, but

it was so long ago.


Rain chuckling gutters. 
Curtains handcuffing the night. 
Summer dies in sleep. 

Saturday, 30 September 2017


Sea swim.

Salt under the back scratcher. 

Red and green seaweed in the bath. 

Joy in my heart. 

Purple knees hold memories. 

Freedom to choose. 

Second childhood

Throwing back the comfort blanket,

the old man from his chair,

picks up on a conversation, 

with a small boy playing there.

Another Haiku poem

Swansea boy Dylan.

Always under his mantle.

Write you are then like.

Friday, 29 September 2017


Dads are our prophets. 

They never, ever leave us. 

We are their freedom.

Wednesday, 27 September 2017


the man with cancer
daily swimming in the sea
damned if it will!

More Haiku poems

childhood village tear
for away in the manger
Sunday school pinned

me see sea see me
onto me shall salt sea be
sea see me see sea

the cuttings blossom
not sure if to live or die 
problem of the root

verdant sedum rouge
on the wrinkles of autumn
will not melt the snow

Haiku poetry is: 

Mellow September?

My latest illustrated article on Swansea News Network 


old songs are ear's tears
we remember how it was
and we hug again

Monday, 25 September 2017

The thing in the night

Just beyond earshot
the night will not say. 
It is creeping reptile black
a heartbeat away. 
Through the window now
and I'm under the sheets!

Sunday, 24 September 2017

Parking mad

Parking mad

I know said the Devil,
  outside the church,
     let's park on the pavement.

I know said the adult,
  outside the child clinic,
     let's park on the pavement.

I know said the far-sighted,
  outside the meeting for the visually impaired,
     let's park on the pavement.

I know said the running engine,
  outside the rehabilitation centre,
     let's park on the pavement.

I know said the fanatic,
   outside the gym,
     let's park on the pavement.

I know said the youth,
   outside the senior citizens club,
     let's park on the pavement.

I know said the unfit,
   outside of the playing fields.
     let's park on the pavement.

I know said the adults,
   outside the playground,
     let's park on the pavement.

I know said the mum's and dads,
   outside the school,
     let's park on the pavement.

I know said every driver,
   outside of common sense,
     let's park on the pavement.

  said the little man,
     but nobody listened.

In that case, said the mob,
  let's get rid of pavements,
    I hope you are all listening!

Sent from my iPad

Saturday, 23 September 2017


you stretched deep within the machine
reached way back to the source code
changed "you are the 1" to 0
and you broke my heart

Reaching for the word

Like the biggest blackberry 
just out of reach,
the words are never sweet enough.
So, describe the thorns, and
the blood will remember.

Friday, 22 September 2017

Down the seas of my history


Down the seas of my history,
the dreamboat ploughs the rolling waves,
the high tiers of tears,
stinging, just there, where I used to be.

Aquamarine in dream, but grey
in reality, the slag tips and the stone
where we played, short-trousers ragamuffins,
with mum waiting at home for tea.

Little light bulb station road,
haloed in watering eyes.
When darkness beckoned, adventure bragged,
and dragged in backward glances.

Pals we were, dwarfed by the ghosts
who were there. We knew. We stepped
onwards in the flow of growing up.
The round trip of home for supper.

The wooden bridge, the slag slashed path.
Our hurrying feet, sure but unsure,
span the wide-eyed orange moon, of Dan Dare,
up there, in a spacesuit full of bated breath.

Take not the chapel path, nor by the pub.
Meet not the prayer books or the beer blather.
But tread the boys' own secret paths,
of a communion, dark in conspiracy.

Knowing there's an answering to the village,
in the mist above the moon ways.
Where the book of times was written,
recording all our sins.

Even 'ere we shun the whispered rules,
even our mothers' solemn contracts.
So runs the demon spark of youth.
Go on! It is! Go on!

I could race around and down
these warren ways, for all my days and days.
Awash with sangfroid broken tears,
and the anguished love of years.

Long gone, and yet alive for always,
when we return in thought,
to our ruin in the ruins,
on the slag tips and woe betides.

Lay the ashes of my thoughts,
where the torn pages smoulder.
Lay them upon my village times,
and sprinkle over my slumber. For

I've been back there again.
I've hugged them all again.
And I will return there again.
To laugh again, and again, and again.
Surfing the tides of my history.
Running in mystery.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

Second-hand prose

Second-hand prose


The faces, held with bated breath,
in a book's dusk-dusted pages,
congregated in the pews of twilight,
drawn down upon their ages.
Each slice of their hearts delight,
desiccated in the spume of tears
torn from their rants and rages,
to lay warm, wrapped in dust, 
and fast within the pages.

I can smell their sadness there in must.
The hands that held the book,
cheek to cheek, dusting dust,
swirl fast a gazing loving look.
Or, cosy in brown paper shroud,
you haunt the time machine, 
tip toe through the mausoleum,
wherein we all do dream.
Waltz me forever, tight to your bosom,
in love's long pirouette.
Down all the fastness of our time,
for not one minute do I regret,
our second-hand repose.

Monday, 18 September 2017

Great Brexit

Great Brexit

Britain, on the catafalque of lies before Europe,
who, sitting around the empty, rattling tumbrel,
whisper of the Thuggee garrote. Tighter.
Britain, to be interred in the mausoleum of Empire,
by those so minded of the glory days,
that they forget the way back.
Their misty ways, now so irresistible
to the dew-eyed, dyed-in-the-wool
old Englanders of the viceroy plumes.
The flag is at half-mast. Going up or down?
The last post or the reveille?
Never before has so much been ....

Uncle Jim's Poems for Children

The illustrations
My poems for children now on Kindle £2

Poem titles:

Flight of sand
In the deep midwinter
Lazy lizard
Modern man
Fair feather
Water boat
Mariah, Mariah,
The three bells
The frog
Snowy the abominable snowman 
The sun
The race

Wednesday, 13 September 2017

The frog

Look through this frog's speckled eye
  and you will see black spotted spawn,
and all the wriggly tadpoles swimming,
  in the well where he was born.

Why do you think he is watching you?
  With his skin shinning wet and bright.
Perhaps he fears you will pick him up,
  and stop his trip tonight.

For he is going on a long hop,
  across the fields and dales.
Until he finds that same old well,
  where he was born in Wales.

He is looking for a wife to marry,
   so she can jelly lay frogspawn.
and all the little froggy eggs
  will be shining in the dawn.

They will leave them there in a gang,
  where they will grow little legs and tails.
Until they too will go on their long hops,
  to find their own homes in Wales.

And big mister froggy?
  Well he is living in a stream.
Eating worms and juicy slugs,
  having forty winks, and a dream.

Saturday, 9 September 2017


the salt pans of tears
                     flamingo city
the cat rolls            upon the shoreline
                     high ho
                    the snow falls
on                                   Christmas Eve
sing     anolis carolinensis    
                        the breeze 
in one window
                         out the other
  fire me timbers
  safely gathered in
  the wood pyres

the wooden cats soak up the sun
          cooked in their fur
             to sleep upon
                 the night

twiddle my rock-cakes

nash                                             nash
         nosh                           nosh
                  nash          nash
 nish         nish           nish         nash
         nosh         nosh        nosh

the sun explodes the horizon of infinity
at the back of the front of the black hole
such a very small t whiskey
down the highlands of your mind
    bottoms up

the Who tore up the Sixties
did they not
as the red wall absorbed everything
                   and was gone

Thursday, 7 September 2017


Brittle boy girl lamplight corner,
  glow chip shop darkened streets.
Night held breath, fingers sparking,
  the knowing generation meets.

Where loadstone days embrace,
  the itch of destiny unfolds,
then do faerie days, as must away,
  for in bated breath - lo, and behold!

A child no more. No more blushes,
  in church hall breathless musky dances,
tiptoe on eggshell furtive crushes,
  shared in surreptitious longing glances,

winks the eye of the hormonal storm,
  surfing the waves of angst and joy,
running stampede, heartbeats thrumming,
  when boy meets girl, and girl meets boy.

Saturday, 2 September 2017

The mothering of the day

The iron thumps, mothering the washing
in front of the fire tales.
Night turns it's back at the window
where the ceiling light winks goodbye.
Clock tock, iron thump, tick clock.
Cinders tinkle, the grate clinks.

The radio thrums the world
to sleep, eaten deep of the chair.
The stair curtain ruffled by ghost's
cool hand across the room.
The doors are closed,
the fire guard in place,
the ironing piled high
way up to bed,
out of time
out of day
out of tock, tick tock, tick tock ...

Friday, 1 September 2017

Full pelt

On the adventure doorstep
of which way today?
Full pelt down a childhood morning,
warming to the sun of play,
forever fibrillating and wide in eyes.

Wednesday, 30 August 2017

With Summer Homeward Bound


Beach burnt brown to eventide 
basking on a lizard day. 
Silhouetted in shrieks the
childrens' matchstick army 
fight "absoluterly ginormous!" waves 
that crash over castles, and 
flood vain their boasts,
that stopped no tides, nor did a
sun beseeched agree to stay.

Then along the cliff walk home,
apace the ebbing tide, seal hauled up 
and basking in the afterglow's warm
breath upon our weary shoulders,
salt skinned, itched, sanded,
and so long in shadow
absent minded 
and homeward bound.

Along the dusk diminuendo eyelids droop,
as the day draws in the sundown dusk.
Over dinner, served with breathless starlight,
and violin reflections, candles splutter in
dance over fine wines clinked and sipped,
in a seaweed hammock, briny upon the breeze.

When the promenaders, with their
dog-tired children, have perambulated
to their beds ashore, we attune
to the rhythm of the lighthouse,
the swell of the sea drowned day.
With nightgown drooping eyes,
at the confluence of the rivers of
all the delta suns, of all the days 
we ever wished to sail,
beneath high pennant colours,
resplendent and blown along
the horizon, golden in ribbon,
and wrapped in sighs,
at the end of a perfect day. 

Late summer upon the altar of autumn,
the sad sacrifice of a blood red sun,
quenched in its own skyline and salted 
with tears under the moon's cool stare. 

A cosmic shiver on the bedroom stairs 
of a spun down day, shawled in a lullaby. 
Whisper, "little one, remember today,
for one day, my bachgen bach, 
you will dream that you are here,
and you will wish you were once more".

Sunday, 27 August 2017

Marking time

What is it at the end of day
that, left unsaid, rankles 
at being unwritten 
or unpainted? 
To know that
one day, 
when the end has ended,
it will never, ever, be said.

The realisation that no mark
can be left to mark 
that you were here at all.
Because, if all the marks 
that you have left
are not seen, 
or if seen neglected,
then why strive to leave that mark,
another in the line of marks neglected?

There is nothing in the lichen crusted epitaphs,
upon the tombstones laid repetitiously,
that will cut the mirrors of eternity,
on which we so seek to scratch 
our mark in perpetuity.

Alone in this contemplation,
the artist, poet, pen,
in the alchemy of ages striven 
to divest their fingerprint or iris scan, 
upon the slippery tides of man.

Or does the genie draw back
into the smoked bottle corked,
to lay in a dusty secret nook
cobwebbed asleep
never to be rubbed again?

For there is no chisel blow
that can wrest asunder,
or decipher the enigma,
the illegibility of
benediction when
the impotence of ego id, 
for marking time is ended,
and the tears flow


Friday, 25 August 2017

Among the flowers of a chance encounter.


Among the flowers of a chance encounter.
A pleasant hello, no more. 
Then an oscillating ... don't I?
Know you? 
It is! And 

names explode from the dormant volcanoes
of the magma lakes of gold.
A kiss, and hugs float on 
where did all our years?

Remembered features, 
by feeling more than sight,
for almost sixty years have passed.
Must be! 
As smiling eyes swirl in memory.

The briefest coy girl boy before,
in no time the conversation flows.
Of where and when, did you and I,
take our different roads?

To arrive back at this point in time,
from a time when the lower branches
of our family trees, rubbed in the breeze,
when in pinafore dress, and short trousered knees,
we sat at our desks in line.

Is it a fool's gold we hold within our eyes,
that stare across the years?
How can the canyon of half a century 
be dismissed in a glance?

In a smile, so nice to have met you, and
we could talk and talk for ages.
You have read my book, you said,
and found yourself within the pages.

Well, today,
Marlene (nee Morgan) 
met again
James Young.
Not way back in Cwm junior school, 4A.
But arm in arm knee deep,
in the glorious flower beds of time.