Photo: WHB – 2019



Barred from a life
Tossed aside

In the fervour of a game
Black-leaded dungeon
Grey grave
Sad sepulchre

Once loved
Now soon to be
The ashes
From whence I came

Tell them

Not only humans
Are hurt
By rejection
Not only flesh
Is melted by fire



Photo: WHB – 2019




A Literal Death

brown wooden cubes

Photo by Shamia Casiano on

A Reverie – on linguistic bugbears, slang, cliché, and the vernacular

Have a good day
You guys

You know what I mean
For back in the day
That bad hair day
I have to say
To be honest
At this moment in time
I’m not gonna lie
I found out the hard way
I’d lost the plot

So they told me
Keep it real
It’s the only way
And anytime soon
Do you know what?

Well, like I said
At the end of the day
We’re in uncharted territory
We are where we are
So as they say
just let’s do it

So I ran with it and
To coin a phrase
Let’s be absolutely clear about this
I literally died


Cuddy Wifter

person s left hand

Photo by Victor Freitas on

Cuddy wifter

 I’m a southpaw,
But that’s alright;
Well not quite.

Yes, cack-handed,
But I’m cautious;
Sinister, Gauche,

Left or right,
Up or down.
Does it worry,
Cause a frown?

I don’t worry
‘Cos I know
With my left hand
How far I throw

Yet some will tip
Their nose and sniff,
Just because
I’m cuddy wiff



Cuddy wifter. A dialect or Old English term, most frequently used in the North East of England to refer to a left-handed person. 


adult anger art black background

Photo by Pixabay on




To market, to market,
They’re selling fatted sheep
To market, to market,
Then they have us put to sleep.

To market, to market,
They’re selling off our meat
To market, to market,
For those carnivores to eat. 

To market, to market,
They turn us into chops
To market, to market,
In those blooded butchers’ shops

To market, to market,
Our bleats are never heeded. 
To market, to market
They claim our meat is needed.

To market, to market,
They’ve already had our wool
To market, to market,
Now it’s us they cull

To market, to market,
We’re mutton casserole
To market, to market,
Think for whom the bells toll.



The photograph, captured recently through the window of an inn on the A30 in Hampshire, is of a three-tiered cattle truck, with what appeared to be a full load of sheep.

The Ballad of the Fatberg

Fatberg – Fatberg, Growing so fast;
Fatberg – Fatberg, Growing so fast;
Please don’t tell them where I am
They’re sure to set up a webcam.

I’ve made my way along this river
Accepting all from every giver
Now I’m stuck – a great fat ball.
Full of gunge and ten feet tall.

Mounds of wet-wipes, cooking fat.
Now you know what happens to that.
Rolled into one gigantic ball,
Big as the goddammed Albert Hall.

They say how many of us exist
In pipes and rivers in our midst.
Across our fair and pleasant land
Disposed of waste … Ain’t it grand!

When they’ve dispersed my fat and grease
all those wet wipes, every piece
Then at last I’ll meet my end
But then the next one will descend

And when dissolved, where do we go?
Why, into the sea then, don’t you know?
That great big cess pool in the ocean,
Unlikely to stir your dulled emotions. 

A FATBERG is a congealed mass in a sewer system formed by the combination of non-biodegradable solid matter, such as wet wipes, and congealed grease or cooking fat. Fatbergs became a problem in the 2010s in England, because of ageing Victorian sewers and the rise in usage of disposable cloths. Wikipedia


Photo: WHB – 2019


Roll up! Roll up and help yourself, 
Go on a spending spree, 
For here you’ll find no worries now, 
‘Cos all the cash is FREE. 

Just help yourself, indulge and binge, 
Splash cash without a thought. 
Your bank is feeling generous
And it will cost you naught. 

Perhaps their vaults are full today;
Maybe they’ve too much money. 
Perhaps it’s just philanthropy, 
Though something there feels funny. 

So take advantage while you can
Of such fiscal generosity. 
You’ll never have a better chance
To show your verbal virtuosity. 

For when your monthly balance sheet
Shows all those sums in red,
Don’t bat an eyelid, keep quite cool, 
Remind them what they said.

For FREE means FREE, you are quite right, 
Tell your bank politely.
They may not listen, as is their wont, 
Don’t let the beasts off lightly.


For Starters


What to choose for starters?

Yes, I know I’m hard to please.

While others make decisions

I sit there ill at ease.

Shall I indulge in mushrooms?

Is the better bet the soup?

While I study and consider

Eyes glaze and eyelids droop.

I cannot bear the goats cheese;

Prawn cocktail leaves me cold.

I know I’m getting fussy

And my taste buds are quite old.

Asparagus is stringy,

The pâté’s often off.

The pepper in the mackerel

So often makes me cough.

Canapés are dainty,

But can be very bland.

Whitebait’s a non-starter.

Calamari should be banned.

Focaccio or bruschetta?

No, they’ll make my stomach leaden;

Perhaps my taste receptor cells

Have died and gone to heaven.

Fried brie does sound exciting,

But it’s sticky – makes me sick.

Oh, please, forget the starters

The main course please – and quick!

The Black Bra

Black on Red
It stood
Proud statement
Discarded in frenzy
All passion spent
Improperly passive now
Objet trouvé
Found flotsam
Overstating its status
Yet benign

No threat 
No danger
The sad music of lust

Fashioned by whim
Now become
A seafront memento
In memoriam
Of some casual
Teasing escapade
A littoral reminder

Of a purple period
Of passion
Part Bikini
Plain Brassiere



Photos by kind permission of Canadian artist, Alma Kerr



black and white book business close up

Photo by Pixabay on

On the trials of a would-be Poet . . . continued . . .

The words won’t come …
Is all that I can say
It fills a space
A hole in time
But I will have my day
My day when flow turns into flood 
And torrents can’t be held;
New words will rush – 
Nay, hush, they’ll gush.
More trees, no longer safe, will die
For inspiration 
Is it for this the poet’s toil,
Denuding all those forests?
Did oojamaflip kill time and life
With its pointless blunted knife?
Or did I seek to spill my thoughts
Predicated on my fecund muse
Merely upon a whim –
A sense of knowing what to say
Without reason to say it? 
NOTE: From the O.E.D.   … Like thingamabob or whatchamacallitoojamaflip (also spelled whojamaflip, hoojamaflip, etc.) is a word used to refer to something a person doesn’t know the name of, or doesn’t wish to specify precisely.   . . .
A word used when you can’t remember the word that you want to be saying.

To Rhyme or Not to Rhyme?

I asked a question of my friend

It did not seem too hard.
I wished to know
What rhymes with word,
Hardly a question for the Bard.
He said he’d heard
Of nerd and turd,
And bird and curd and herd,
And even that rude French word merde
If I wished to be absurd.
I left him to his contemplation,
I could hardly ask for more.
Eight words were all that I could hope
Before he asked me what it’s for.
When I said I was averse
To omit a telling rhyme,
He said a verse was always worse
When forced into a line.
No doubt it’s true,
A poem is killed,
Its passion bled anew,
When thought proceeds without a nudge,
A kiss from me to you.
So, suitably dissuaded from
Forcing further rhyme,
I’ve downed my pen,
I don’t know when,
But, mouse among men,
I I’ll try again

… sometime.