Don't travel the world to see the sights

made famous from iconic photos

for when you get to the actual places,

either they look just as you expected

or more likely they're not as good.

The cameraman who took the photo

had the skill to judge the angle,

catch the quality of the light,

select the appropriate exposure

to create that competition winner.

But you, dear traveller, take pot luck

on season, weather, time of day.

We all know the need for novelty,

for something new not too far ahead

to work and plan for but try to resist

the insistence of image, obsession of idea.

And if you just want to say you've been there,

trying to impress your friends  -

it's a bit sad  !

I hate my ancestors, and parents,
for the features of my face:
the nose too long, the mouth too big,
the ears stuck out in space.

I try to make myself attractive
but the boys still pass me by.
My friends are all much prettier.
Oh God, I want to cry !

I do my very best with make-up,
perfume, all the latest gear.
I try to keep my weight in check
and spend a fortune on my hair.

But what's the good when I'm still cursed
by my unlucky family look.
Deep down I've almost given up,
for all the pains I've took.

If only I had cash enough
for plastic surgery, I'd find
someone to re-shape my face
and cut despair out of my mind.

Three steps to write a poem:
first have a new idea;
then some repeating rhythm;
last, make some rhymes appear.

It happens so often - I say to myself
I'm just too tired to go to the gym.
But then I think - it's good for my health
I ought to go just to keep slim.
So I make the effort and after the session
whatever hormones it is kick in
and I'm pleased that I fulfilled the mission
with aching but envigoured limbs.
It doesn't matter it's not a full hour.
What's exercised most is weak willpower.

If we are only ships that in the dark night pass,
that find each other for a while and then are cast
by wind and currents each on a different tack
drifting too far to ever steer our courses back,
then know I fly your name upon the mast
and carry your memory with me to the last.

Junk journalism, like junk food,
is bad for public health;
we graze on fake celebrities
and choke on others' wealth.

We snack on sex and violence,
imbibe verbal abuse,
ingest the latest additives
with boredom as excuse;

we substitute for wholesome fare
re-constituted mush;
our minds grow flabby from so much
re-gurgitated slush.

So is there no alternative
to journalistic piss?
Of course there is - you're reading it,
junk poetry like this.

Flyleaf

"This book belongs to ME"
and where she lives is noted here,
the flyleaf record of her childish glee
at doing something clever, logically
extending her address to England,
Europe, World, The Universe.

Silly to an adult,
out of place, but why?
For that child starts to realise
in those few foolish words
the journey of the mind
discovering worlds within worlds.

When will she see as clearly again
the logic leading on
to the inevitable paradox
of the place of Man?

Inward and outward journeys start
within that child's head -
the distance of the stars
and the bones of the dead.