Saturday, 23 February 2008


She stood and looked him in the eyes,
Her gaze was so intense,
“I’m sorry” were the only words
That came to his defence.

He grabbed her hand, pulled her close,
Asked what he’d done wrong,
Wondered how he could put it right
To make them get along.

She knew that deep within her heart
The time was drawing near,
How could she tell the man she loved
She did what he did last year?

Pulling away from his big strong arms
She then starts to explain,
Their five year wedding anniversary -
She’d forgotten it was today!

With a glint in his eye, he gives a sigh,
And tells her not to worry,
Last year she wouldn’t forgive him,
But today’s a different story.

So with this there’ll be no grief
He wont have to pay the price,
For once again he forgot the date,
But this time like his wife!

Thursday, 21 February 2008


Do you wonder if your choice was right?
Did you try hard to put up a fight?
Was it that easy to just walk away?
And start your life over again.
Would you notice her face in a crowd?
Look around when you hear her sound?
You don’t really know her, she's in your past
But these are questions she needs to ask .
You have a connection which is hard to believe
It runs through bodies, it's called your genes.
Until these answers are put to rest
You remain two strangers within her head.

Sunday, 17 February 2008

What makes a poet??????????????????

What is a poet??????????????????
For anybody who has visited my Blog page, you’ll notice that it consists of just my poems. but I wanted to add my own comments to a discussion - well it was more of a debate really - with a few people that I have had this week over “who is a poet”, and my goodness it seems we all have very different opinions on this topic.
I personally like poetry to be individual and to suit the poet’s own style and represent their own idea of poetry, not anyone else’s ideology of what it should be, I also like poetry to be something that I can relate to whether it’s serious or humorous. However, saying this, I have read some poetry form others who have a completely different style to mine, and I’ve enjoyed them, despite the stark contrast between our style.
This is where the debate comes in. I feel that anyone who chooses to write poetry for any expressive reason has a right to deem themselves a “poet”. Where is it stated in stone that just because you have not spent years and money studying poetry you can not call yourself a “poet”? Everyone has their own style and reasons for writing poetry, whether this be as a “hobby” or in the hope of publication.
There is such a wide variety of individual tastes and preferences , and in order to make sure we are not all projecting our voices to the same audience we all need to differ. For every person that dislikes a piece of work there will be someone else who takes the opposing opinion.

“OH NO YOU'RE NOT . . .”

“You're not a poet.”
So I’m told,
Very harsh
And oh so bold.

“Have you read the books,
Learnt the craft,
Revised for hours?”
This I’m asked.

“A hobbyist
Is more your name,
You’ll never gain.”

While answering this
My reply is kind:
“I write from the soul
And not just the mind.”

So with this
Debating went on,
Comments I made
Came twice as strong,

No apologies
For how I write,
I’m now more determined
To put up a fight .

“. . . OH YES I AM”

Saturday, 9 February 2008

A life is taken

A young life is taken
The headlines explain
A family in anguish
The pain will remain

Questions unanswered
How will they cope?
Their dreams for his future
Gone up in smoke

Top achieving student
His reports all say
Worked hard at college
To gain his grades

Anyone who knew him
All said the same
He avoided trouble
By walking away

The police enquiries
Came to and end
They arrested the culprits
Finally detained

At the sentencing
The story unfolds
A theft of his mobile
The jury are told

Ten years in prison
For each of the men
Will they learn their lesson
Or do it again?

Friday, 1 February 2008

The Look

Walking past the jewellery shop
She grabs his hand and makes him stop

Pointing towards the sparkling ring
She asks him what he truly thinks

At first glance he thinks it's nice
But then he sees the frightful price

“Oh my god” he starts to say
His body trembles and starts to sway

She looks at him with pleading eyes
And gives the sweetest, biggest smile

And with that he writes the cheque
A bead of sweat runs down his neck

Once again she's got him hooked
It only has to take that look

It happens every single time
Just one smile and he can't decline