Category Archives: poems for adults

you know the kind of thing

The journey

The journey
stretches out like an untravelled road
An unread book
A new bed yet to be slept on
A hidden passage yet to be crept
down

The journey
is the thing not the destination
It’s the travelling we anticipate
Like human freight
We like to be moving
We think it’s great

The journey
is in the preparation
and the contemplation
Sometimes the frustration
if the flight’s delayed and
we think how much
we paid

But as a child, the journey means nothing
You just want to be where you’re going to. Now.

(Written for New Beginnings, a Roundabout poetry event at Worthing Library, 28 January 2011)

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Waiting for the gun

Deep breath
First step
Look ahead
Beating heart
Mind set
Ready now
Muscles taut
Nerves sharp
Centre down
Focus in
Waiting
for
the

start

(Written for New Beginnings, a Roundabout poetry event at Worthing Library, 28 January 2011)

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Beginning

Beginning a poem is not a problem.
Finishing it can be more
of an issue.

Sometimes you have to take drastic

(Written for New Beginnings, a Roundabout poetry event at Worthing Library, 28 January 2011)

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First day at school

First day at school
Itchy uniform
That doesn’t quite fit
The smell of mum
replaced by the smell of floor polish
Cabbage
And disinfectant

Fear of
bullies
nasty teachers
food you don’t like
things you can’t do
doing something wrong
being told off
being laughed at

the unknown

Still, what’s the worst that can happen?
You might die horribly
in the crush to get to the toilets
Or be maimed for life
under the vaulting horse
Or have your ears flicked in assembly
by the naughty boy in the row behind
Or be embarrassed by that girl
from next door but one
Or wee under your desk

But hardly any of these happen.
Particularly the death one.

And you learn to cope with some of the others.

That’s what I learned at school.

(Written for New Beginnings, a Roundabout poetry event at Worthing Library, 28 January 2011)

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Home (part 1)

It’s the place that you leave
When you no longer cleave
Somewhere you don’t have to achieve
It’s the corner where you grieve

It’s the chorus in your song
You don’t have to be too strong
In the right or in the wrong
It’s the place you belong

You can say that it’s broken
That its rules are unspoken
That its meaning is just token
It’s the sleep from which you’ve never woken

Dorothy says there’s no place like it
It’s near enough that you can bike it
It’s walking distance – you can hike it
It’s a seam of gold if you can strike it

They say it’s where your heart is
You know it’s where your start is
Even if you’ve been to Timbuktu
It’s a place you come back to

29/9/10

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Sprung

Written for Spring Poetry at Worthing Library on 26 March 2010

Sprung

Spring?
Sprung
MPs?
Bung
Trapeze artist?
Highly strung
Honey trap?
Spies stung
Silage company opens Chinese restaurant
Hoo Flung Dung
Bring and Buy?
What have you brung?
New jeans,  no hips
Low slung

Spring?
It’s a sneaky thing
Crocuses first then the daffs came late
It’s a melody we love to sing
but it’s sung

Ding dong
ping pong
Spring
has
sprung

25 March 2010

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I have been inside the corridors of power

I have been inside
the corridors of power.
And they are more often
rooms
with chairs and a table
in them.

Often they are used by
ordinary people
who have ended up there
by accident.
Or design.
Or votes.
Or something.

They probably don’t wake up
and say to their loved ones:
“today I am going to
my usual place
in the corridors of power”.

They say: “I am going to work”.

And so the exercise of power
is broken down into a thousand
small things
like phone calls
typing words
and running out of paper clips.

At night the corridors of power
echo to the sound of vacuuming,
because the cleaners are in.

They make sure the corridors
(and rooms) of power are
not covered in dust.
Because that reminds the
people who work in
the corridors (and rooms) of power
of what they will
ultimately become.

The corridors (and rooms)
of power can get a bit
lonely
sometimes.

But there is always
dust
for
company.

10 March 2010

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