Here are a number of poems which I have written over the years. Many others have been used as lyrics for songs and maybe I will include those two one day.

This is the Dust (A sonnet)

This is the dust this art will now forego:
some spendings that pepper the polychrome
floors, no symmetry lying there, although,
by template feet an outlined pattern's shown.
Was it mere fortune of the chisel's tap,
caprice, where time and circumstance are torn
between the lino with its grizzled nap
and investing in the emerging form?
Brush, and then go, now recall gestalt-wise,
the glory when the chrysalis divests
it's contribution: locking safe for eyes
to see what happenstance would keep for best?
But if the will of waste was to decide,
Mind and sinew's work would stay inside.

This next sonnet was written after seeing a beautiful church which had been closed up. I could not imagine that the builders ever thought that their creation would fall into this state when they put their heart and soul into its creation.

These Stone Are Not the Silent Ones (A sonnet)

These ancient stones are not the silent ones,
But witness to the faith of hands and craft.
They’ve heard each prayer from mothers for their sons,
Each supplicant and newly bonded laugh.
For walls and buttress thought they would survive,
And blossomed ‘neath the hands of those of trust,
Through songs which brought the stained-glass saints alive,
Not dreaming of a sad decline and rust
which complements the task of worm in wood.
While outside those now stumble and falter,
With that which can be waxed on Sunday should,
Kneel before a diff’rent kind of altar.
As brick and beam and casement weeps in pain,
Outlives a faith it will not see again.

Out of the Blue

The morning task is underway, which socks, which shirt and shoes will do?
Then pieces start to break away, for there you come from out of blue.

I clear my plate away again, tea is drunk, my breakfast through,
Then feel a sudden rush of pain, for there you come from out of blue.

The car won't start, I'm in the rain, I stop and think of what to do,
My soul's invaded once again, as there you come from out the blue.

The day is long and makes it's way, regardless of what I try to do,
So voices, urgent, whispering say: "She's here again, from out the blue."

And now a silly poem!

The Cork

As I pulled the cork to pour the wine I thought I heard it say:
"My life has been so squashed and cramped in a constricted way,
And life inside a rubbish bag it seems is all I got.
As I cork, you must agree, my life is not a lot."
"But" I replied compassionately (my sentiment not bitter)
"To take this view with all my trash would mean a pile of litter"
"Very well" the cork replied. "I guess," and "what the heck!"
"It's not as bad as being forced to live in someone's neck."