Inspiring literacy confidence through workshops for all ages!
Workshops include introducing poetry styles, creating and performing. I can tailor it to your specific needs, or challenge the dormant creativity we all possess.
As a poet, I do love to recite. I don't mind if it's my own work, or someone else's.
I'm happy fit in with the National Curriculum aims and requirements, including comparative assessment and constructive critique.
Here's a few of my own.
Half past a quarter to seven
In the night time, during the day
I sprinted whilst hovergliding
On a stream spilling over with hay.
Down to the kangaroo’s igloo,
Where the mountains reached up to the sea
And froze in the hot soaking desert
In my sleeping bag, dancing with glee.
My watch, which I wasn’t wearing,
Said the time was a hundred and eight
So I hurried along without moving
And strolled through the fence with no gate.
I smiled at the invisible person
I could see when I wiggled my knees,
And swam with the A-major ice cream
And sang with the green swimming bees.
Now to the folks who look without seeing
Who unlock a door so it shuts
My journey’s beginning is middle
And the end is, I’m totally nuts!
Do you laugh when sometimes nothing is funny?
Do you cry when sometimes nothing is sad?
Do you seek your friends when you’re feeling lonely?
Do you seek your own company when the good times go bad?
Do you have “funny moods” when all things seem distant?
Do you wander around knowing not what to do?
Do you feel as though no one ever is listening?
Do you ever feel as though nothing is true?
Do you sense that the answer’s just out of your reaching?
Do you clumsily knock over cup after cup?
Do you wonder if ever you’ll find what you’re seeking?
Do you know that you’re not all alone, growing up?
School again today
Not that I mind going, but
Weekends are better
TALK TO ME
People ask mum how I am
And she says I’m well enough
And when I’m being pushed by dad
They say lots of pleasant stuff
I know they all mean very well
And never mean to stare
But I wish they’d learn to talk to ME!
And forget the damn wheelchair.
Once, before time, a garden arose from nothing.
Filled, scented, warmed, given life,
And all was wonder, and peace.
Deceit drove the tillers from the wonder,
And sadness reigned at their loss.
Peace remained, but distanced.
Later, a garden grown from toil and sweat,
Saw tears and terror, pain and injustice
Soil its tender fragrance.
Yet all gardens have seasons, and time,
To regain former glories, and this one
Saw also the beginning, of wonder, and peace.
Wave goodbye to clouds of tears
by letting in the light;
wring the wrong from storms of doubt
and see with clearer sight;
as constant sea erodes the sands,
God’s constancy, His might.
I want to be swept away
rich, full, flowing
life-filled and smashed
dashed into oceans
colour blinded, dazzled
electrified by pulses
making mine race
outside mere human spectacle
and less just looking
find the elusive
where only tears speak.
Tonight, I saw
Heavenly shine amongst
The daylit night;
Wonder enough, then
To speak of.
The only sound
Was that of my tears
Hitting the ground.
stripes of zephyr in azure skies
amidst the moons deep haze
and lengths of violets slowly rise
to frame the end of days
Where once there was a playing field
Where all around was open land
Where jungle animals were heard
Where Custer took his last, vain stand
Where hidden children sneaked to den
Where pirates sailed the seven seas
Where England beat Brazil for once
Where flowers were graced by happy bees
Where picnics made the summer day
Where adventure set the day’s events
Where conkers gave all equal chance
Where now stands bricks and harsh cement.
Where is the sense in killing grass?
Where does the land seem smaller now?
Where are the lanes I courted in?
Where can I hear the sound of plough?
Where do they think the children play?
Where have flowers to plant their roots?
Where can I hear the graceful bees?
Where do I use my walking boots?
Where is the tree I looked out from?
Where could it seed in flattened scape?
Where can we breathe in playing fields?
Where was debate to halt this rape?
A thing is more than itself
Ritual study shows us
Time heralds new meanings
Inside each of us, lurking
Secretly gestating ideas, creativity
Tempting boldness, abstraction, form
Idle doodles reveal yearnings
Calling, gently calling
I’ll see you on Midwinter’s Eve, and then shall play our game of chance
that smile I wore at your behest may yet undo your victory dance.
These words forgotten all too swift by one who’s guiles and wiles bewitched
too many men whose heads were turned by dancing legs as skirts were hitched.
The dance went on for many years with laughter overcoming doubt
that some had sensed until those feet, those dancing feet, put fears to rout.
But years exact a heavy price for jollity to have its way
and lines must blur as rouge applied more heavily than years can play.
Soon, all too soon, the dancer needs a slower and more gentle tune
and lines are drawn as rouge’s mask awaits the far more flattering moon.
But then shall see the smiles return to all those broken-hearted eyes;
there’ll be no rest, no slower tune and aching feet shall dance to lies
now told in song, forever fast with partners new each step and turn
while smiles look on, as yours is fixed, unable to escape the burn.
That sadness in each smile you pass while whisked and spun in endless round
is yours to view for evermore, no rest for you in sacred ground.
Your partner now for several bars, I smile no more, my heart is stone
I lost too much in Summer’s haze, and Autumn saw me dance alone.
And now Midwinter’s Eve arrives and we can play our game of chance
The dice is thrown and no-one wins, there is no heady victory dance.