I like to see a silverfish
at night on my kitchen worktop.
I like the way it sprints in bursts
like a blackbird on a lawn
but somehow liquid, bending itself
in order to change direction,
flowing like animal mercury
then pausing for breath, or thought
assessing the situation.
Some people may think it unhygienic
but to me it's a piece of magic.

Cremation is a waste of human flesh
much better fed to worm or dog or bird.
True, ashes fertilise the soil if spread
but, potted, nourish nothing, set absurd
upon a mantelpiece as monument
to man's withdrawal from the natural scheme
of birth, life, death, re-use in other life
in favour of the life eternal dream.
Is man so valuable his flabby flesh
is thought too good for other creatures' use?
Such vanity in a species guilty of
exterminating others without excuse !
I'd choose sky burial with my flesh and bones
served to the lammergeiers as final boon
and fly in those birds' bellies through the sky
between the mountains and the keening moon.

Terrorist incident

oh why couldn't you be a coward
just stand well clear and call for help
let the authorities deal with it
it really wasn't your concern
why did you have to push yourself forward
not leave it to others to sort things out
oh no you had to rush right in
without considering me at all
no-one else would risk their life
for a stranger even if a woman
didn't you think things might go wrong
with just a skate board against a knife
oh I can hear the way you thought
I cant stand by and just do nothing
I have to help however I can
that's why I loved you silly man
why did you have to be so brave
you weren't cut out to be a hero
just a normal family man
not a maniac like that bastard
just keep on walking don't look back
just come back home like every day
youll soon forget it life as normal
the future for us all ahead
oh god please can you turn the clock back
what future now that you are dead
now your children have no father
and I your wife have lost half my life
o why o why o why o why
why couldn't you have been a coward

Overwhelmed by the warmth of your welcome,
dancing embraced in your arms
and lifted by cider and catchy music,
I dared to give you a kiss.

It was just a brushing of your brow,
not presumptuous lips,
and then an apology on your hand
so as not to blight the bliss.

But you whirled away across the floor
and found somebody else,
leaving me stranded in outer space,
summarily dismissed.

It was only a gesture of tenderness
but maybe you misread it
as too familiar, going too far,
somehow something amiss.

I really wanted to see you again
and have a proper talk
so I'm writing this poem just to tell you
how much I regret that kiss.

Age no love's fool is lest it fret
for youth's infatuation yet
how reckless naïve passion thrills
where age's sad discretion kills.

Under the bridge in Trafalgar Street
right next to Brighton station
slogging uphill with someone to meet
I read on the pavement this slogan
sprayed in letters remarkably neat
but only on view to pedestrians:

'Help the homeless'

I remembered I'd seen one time before
a bloke lying there on the pavement,
a castaway washed up on shore
asking for change to get the payment
for a bed in a hostel or so he swore
though I rather doubt that was his intent.

Could the slogan itself be changed to say
much the same thing in a different way?

'Home the helpless'

First a miniature volcano

erupting from the earth;

then changed into  a scaly green

but blind reptilian snout,

it mouthed its open jaws to threaten

fiercely spewing forth -

not burning lava - flowers ! and

delicious clinging scent.

A winter miracle of nature,

potted hyacinth.