Cold moon.

Bells clank and clatter
        far off on the hills up high.
Above the wild white wonder
        as large as the sky.

I departed for a walk
        on a winter’s day;
Scattered tufts of frozen blades
        guided the way.

I tasted the excitement
        on the wind’s frozen air.
No animal moved freely
        under my glare.

Children slid, jumped, and threw
        their newfound toy.
Ran my hands through the powder
        embracing each flake of joy.

The trees groaned under
        weights as heavy as a house.
Soon the sun would say goodbye
        like dying flames shining on a winter’s grouse.

Their arms wrapped up
        against nature’s blanket of chalky dry milk.
Glistening fields of brightness
        reflecting the overwhelming beamed sun on silk.

Keeping gifts in mind beyond
        the long-passed autumn nights.
The excitement of finite December
        filled with hope and delights.

Wilfred’s Nature.

A company dressed head to toe in pain: fatigued by angry winds.
A far-off rumbling battle ignores the deadlier than bullets elements here.
The ferocious roaring winds build repeatedly dispatching misery, suffering, and pointlessness.

No protection: coverings withdrawn; hunted by the weather, we, the repressed, cower;
Our suppressed trenches the shape of graves.
We each imagine our death: isolated hope. Gone.

You’ve abandoned us. Betrayed us. YOU!
Our faith in You: departed.
Our soon to be omitted faces freeze. You witness us empty. Our minds swallowed.
Into the void march the many.

Faith forgotten and faded.
We the forgotten turn to soil.
Our voices scream no more. Tears boiled once dry within buried pockets.
You have cast us off. Obliterated. We the erased

Newton Heath

This way to the motion

This way I finally go

God hand me a chance to reply

God deal me a possibility

Grab your thoughts and let’s go

Round our way

Drabness wraps silent days

Buried beneath, I could be

Time to escape this forgotten place

This way to set motions

Pioneering experiences are rife

We should seek our recompense

We should escape to seek luminescence

We slide a pathway downwards

We slip on stones downwards

The supermarket lay dormant

Even the pound shops sag lazily

This way full of emotion

This way we cannot go

God hand a hope in hell

God deal out and show

Drabness wraps silent nights

Dull broken tower blocks sagging

Buried beneath I could be

Dull broken tower blocks flagging

The market is gone

The library fades from thoughts

The canal is filled with unwanted waste

The bars have barred-up broken windows

Long left the football team

The cemetery has been buried further

The old spire stands unsighted

Its stained-glass soul shattered 

The locos are rusting beyond repair

The Vale’s trees collapse in gales

Brookdale, a car park of gas-heads

This way for our motion

This way we finally go

God hand us a chance to fly

God deal us a possibility

31st

A whisper from the wind; a rustling beyond the grasses; the shiver down the spine; a flutter unlike an owl.

The head switching to alert; the echo of muscles tensing; a twined strand of cool mist; all senses firing at once.

Musty tastes of autumnal rot: the creaking strained lean of trees; light depleted skies; under a clouded moon.

Gentle steps struggle to find silence; leaves, twigs, and earth cast sounds; like drumming snaps to my ears; uncovering creeping creatures.

I should have stayed in; I should have cast no shadow today; and now the evening arrived; my shadow has departed.

Notification.

When I was much younger I wore a purple shirt

With a sky blue hat which didn’t go, and didn’t suit me at all.

I spent my pennies on Aero cappuccino bars and magazines where you had to collect each issue to make a model. I never completed them.

There were times where I had no money left to buy bread, milk, or cheese.

I used to sit down for a day each month when I was tired but never rest for long each day.

I’d ring door bells and leg it, and eat Chewits until the dentist would shout at me.

And I kicked balls against walls

And drink full bottles of Tia Maria in one go

And I’d accept every dare knowing risks would follow.

I’d swim butt naked in lakes and never wear a jacket in the rain.

And always wear shorts.

I wore shoes of ill-purpose and eat without worry

And demolish cakes and chocolate bars like breathing air.

My morning would be filled with coffees and Vimto in excess

And beers, beers, ales, and beers would pass my lips daily.

I’d hoard Manchester City badges, shirts, and programmes.

And now I find myself paying rent, bills, wearing sensible clothes, not cursing, and trying to be healthy

I try to lead by example. Set a good name. Play the good game.

Less football, more rest. Less TV, more reading. Less news. Less worries.

Maybe I don’t really wanna know how the garden grows

I’ve lived and practiced and made mistakes

So now I’ll live, love, and make new mistakes

You’ll be shocked and surprised

Am I slowing down? No. Just starting.

When I carry on, until I’m old, I’ll try to wear shorts.


Inspired by my Mam’s love of the 1961 poem Warning by Jenny Joseph.

Platform 14.

Unmoving floor, a walkway without tread.

Far away and far off.  Platform 14.

Almost to the horizon, beyond a travelator.

Up stairs and along a fair way. Platform 14.

The timezones crossed often lead your way.

Rammed carriages versus spacious misplaced trains. Platform 14.

Visit the world, a gateway to Blackpool.

Delays, delays, delays… and freight passing. Platform 14.

Is the moon closer or the sun further?

Pass through the bowels of Piccadilly. Platform 14.

Exposed to the elements: a wind tunnel or a sauna.

A detached island left hanging outside. Platform 14.

“STAND BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE!”

Platform 14: visit Manchester some time.

Playground Blues.

Winner stays on; bell has gone; looks like Champion is our John.

Clock is ticking; defender is nicking; choice of the picking.

Up steps Daz;

gives it to Gaz;

who crosses to Saz.

The goal is gaping; the truants vaping; all of a sudden net is shaking.

The cries are heard from afar; teacher shouts, “nul point”;

Damn – VAR.

Hunt’s Pot (by Pen-y-Ghent)



Beneath the grasses: legs held dangling,
Soft earthly ledges of rich limestone with pure airflow.
The smooth voyage by rail no trouble at all
With striding pathways of steel, through vales of appeal,
across lands cast in green carpets. Beneath cloudless skies
Which beam light into deep crags, the cracked fragmented
Grounds of eternity. Dramatic streams fade from surface
To run a course beyond that of passing eyes, under
Forgotten routes beyond roots. From within the crack
Above life embraces opportunity and greenery reaches upwards
Tumbling automatically without consideration.
Its eagerness to devour air and grow stronger.
Survival of beasts under leafy drapes and salient
Canopies of loath shade across clumsy stacks of statuary shattered stone.
This emerald-laced cauldron sways with breezes lightly.
Winds have bombarded, ice has frozen the past, and much matter
has been dispelled. But today, in the soft sun, this Hunt’s Pot
is Heaven on Earth. Savage not now.

Glydwr Fach

Suitable clothing essential; weather forecast doubtful.

Rise upward substantial; pathway gladly delightful.

Leisurely windproof defences; innocense heartfelt sails.

Purity overlooks consequences; understanding enormous fails.

Symbolic titular crests; hearing howling gales.

Passion references requests; waterproof wandering fairytales.

Vagrant.

I see myself in the faces of the homelessness.

I see the long stares and uncertainty in their eyes.

They are we and we are them.

Treading a fine line between have and have not.

I see the hunger, desperation, and worry.

I see the lost love, the failed support, and a state that has abandoned.

They are we and we are them.

The line so fine it hangs on a cliff edge.

I see the need for help and belonging.

I see the pathway to drowned dreams in pools of booze.

They are what we are and we are what they are.

The fine thread line dangling from a torn jacket.

I see the hope in your eyes when human kindness embraces.

I see the joy when words are heard.

You’re like me and I’m like you.

The line between have and have not closer than you know.

I hear your songs, your rants at pigeons, and your belly rumble.

I hear your tears near-silently fall to the floor.

You are me and I am you.

The damn line we crawl in life.

I feel it all.

But not as they do. Not yet.

Maybe soon.

And you’ll be like me, just like you.

And I’ll be you.

Lost in Nature

Lost in nature, we forgot the time; Chasing mountain hares along a line; Admiring butterflies hanging on fine; This was a day where we forgot the time.

Let out until darkness, we lost our way; Plenty of words we could speak and say; Through flags full of colour we did pray; This was a day we could play our way.

Under stars that shone down on us; Hands in hands feeling the buzz; Taking the moments, each one a plus; Not one feeling deemed superfluous.

These were the places, the times, and the escapes; Swallowed within sprawled landscapes; Every connection spans and takes shapes; These moments, these memories: wonderful escapes.

Battle.

Read my eyes. Read them carefully.
I heard you. I really got your gist.
I’m not talking. My words are silent.
I am trying to think. And block out your sounds.

I heard every little thing. I am not deaf.
Why are you so unkind? Don’t you see me?
Look at my face. Read the expression.
A plethora of scribbled emotions. Keep out of my path.

Think I’m deaf, do you? Look at me.
Look closer. See my body raging.
See that deep upset. I won’t speak.
I don’t want to erupt. I am close.

I have plenty to say. I hold back.
You push me and push me. And some more.
Keep on pushing and pushing. Pushing the hate.
Nothing positive to say? Thought not.

Can’t you shut up? Think of better words.
Don’t I have feelings? You hurt me.
You really have made me sad. Unbelieveably angry.
I count. Don’t I?

Outside in.

How do you find yourself when part of you seems lost or missing?

What if being different is the thing you ignore: your greatest strength?

How far into the abyss would you go to protect someone you love?

What if the world doesn’t make sense, would you still abide by the conventional rules?

What if the bravest thing you can be is yourself and no-one else?

Can your gentlest whisper say more than your loudest shout?

Where do you turn when you feel that you don’t fit in anywhere?

Who said being a mature grown-up had to be anything like perfect?

When everything feels torn and twisted, can you still believe in hope?

Is there only one way of life (that’s your own)?

Calling

Farewell to the stars

My eyes blur with sleep

I don’t invite them on in

Nor do I allow their shouts

I couldn’t hear it

A misdeed so true

I couldn’t feel it

A transgression of angst

A silhouette I am

In a pale concrete box

A Pompeii blast-mark

Solitary without you

Unable to see you

Prevented from calling out

Unable to hear you

I could no longer call

No call possible

Answers no longer reachable

1915

Guns have won

            Childlike show

God listens no more 

      Debased figures rot

                              Angry

Shorter indented lines

            sense of grim     order

Monstrous ANGER claiming victory

Ripped from life.   Unfriendly

                                    Bittersweet

Disappointed nature of war.   Unobservant

      Ultimate victory of foes by cold steel

The devoutly religious with no time to pray

Ineffectual begging given no moment

                                    Depressed

Order gives way to chaos     loose     unreachable

No survivors walk       the squalid trenches

GOD cannot listen

            Your voice unheard

                                    Helpless

The unfolding scenes of death.     Stripped away.

Erratic sounds in battle

Frequently breaking patterns.

Disruption coupled            to disorder

                                          Tortured

The pain goes on.

Light blues.

Woke up one morning and the sun refused to shine.

Woke up, head slumped, joined another line.

Got up and went on, but the day didn’t play.

Tried to talk about it but the words I couldn’t say.

Need a little sunshine for the day.

Need a few more rays to shine my way.

Need a little lightness to say, “Hey!”

So, send some sunshine and break the grey.

The will to go on heaves less and less.

There are more problems that I must address.

My passion to battle often does regress.

Yet, all I want is your love to bless.

Need a little sunshine for the day.

Need a little lightness to say, “Hey!”

Need a few more rays to shine my way.

So, send some sunshine and break the grey.

The drum beats firmer in my ears.

The drumming brings forward all my fears.

Surrounding myself in proverbial beers.

Listening less and less for positive cheers.

Need a little lightness to say, “Hey!”

Need a little sunshine for the day.

Need a few more rays to shine my way.

So, send some sunshine and break the grey.

Send the sunshine.

Send it my way.

Send it.

Send it today.

Divided We Fall?

Never once heard a left-wing leaning leftie say the Union Flag is offensive to anyone. Heard a few republicans call for the abolition of the monarchy and the U.K. flag, and a few Welsh ask for an update to include Yr Draig Goch in it. Honestly, every time I see a post about the U.K.’s Union Flag causing offense to Muslims, and it usually is Muslims, it annoys me. Social media posts, of this hateful kind, being shared look to divide people. Nobody is offended by that U.K. flag. Proud of the flag? Less and less, yes. It represents the majority, born here or drawn here. Perhaps, minorities would display it with pride if the U.K. was a little more friendly.

So, where’s it all coming from? Decades of stretching the haves from the have nots? Year upon years of a widening gap between salaries and costs of living? Or, perhaps tge rich get richer and the poor get poorer? That old cliche. In 32 years since 1990, the top 1% of the U.K. billionaires have seen their wealth grow tenfold. That collective wealth is almost exclusively out of circulation and likely adding to their ability to pull in more pennies. In 2024, according to Oxfam, U.K. billionaires gained £35 million a day. Is that £182 billion a year fair? 70% of the population barely equates the top 1% of the U.K.

Mind the gap. Income inequality may remain constant but the wealth of the richest and poorest is a chasm. Inherited wealth over generations may help the rich keep their titles and banks healthy. The poorest leave behind little and in many cases can’t even add gravestones. Disproportionate tax policies supporting the well-to-do through low taxation of dividends and capital gains benefit the wealthy. Inner city kids have no chance. Should we accept our place? Fodder for Lord Amazon and Co.?

Is there truth in Russia pushing immigration towards the U.K.? Well, many Ukrainians have sought sanctuary in Britain. Wars in Syria, Palestine, Yemen, and unrest across other global regions will always add a demand to find safer shores. Gangs exploiting trafficking for profit and increased ability to find weaknesses in U.K. laws following Britain’s exit from the European Union have certainly raised numbers.

The Royal National Lifeboat Institution (R.N.L.I.) are lifesavers. Volunteers who respond to sea emergencies and pluck the needy from near-certain death. They even rescue sheep and goats from time to time. Life is precious. Their sole purpose: to save lives at sea. A combined crew of 9,800 and 2,000 or so support staff make that possible. Since the 4th of March 1824, the orange livery of search and rescue have been around British and Irish waters, doing their incredible humanitarian work. Never discriminating. I always thought that’s how the U.K. should be viewed: a place of sanctuary and love for life. Perhaps I was naive and should have laughed at the picture of the RNLI boat full of Muslim-looking men heading for the Dover cliffs?

Then again, my Mam has always taught me not to be a knobhead.


When they came for the asylum seekers, I remained quiet; I wasn’t an asylum seeker.

When they came for the transgenders, I stayed silent; I wasn’t transgender.

When they came for the Free Palestine supporters, I kept my mouth closed; I wasn’t a Free Palestine supporter.

When they came for the free press, I didn’t utter a word; I did not write for the free press.

When they came to add internet censorship, I felt conflicted and hid; I did not act against them.

When they came for the library bookshelves, I stood tall and defiant…




Inspired by German Lutheran pastor Martin Niemöller (1892–1984) and his words below (English and German)

When the Nazis came for the communists,
I kept quiet; I wasn’t a communist.

When they came for the trade unionists, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a trade unionist.

When they locked up the social democrats, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a social democrat.

When they locked up the Jews, I kept quiet;
I wasn’t a Jew.

When they came for me, there was no one left to protest.



Als die Nazis die Kommunisten holten,
habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Kommunist.

Als sie die Gewerkschafter holten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Gewerkschafter.

Als sie die Sozialdemokraten einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Sozialdemokrat.

Als sie die Juden einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen;
ich war ja kein Jude.

Als sie mich holten, gab es keinen mehr, der protestieren konnte.



Williams Duo & Goodwin Too

Oh, hey now is this a sign?
Have I been here before?
Oh, why should I care?
You can hear the silence drone
I still thirst

I looked for some guidance
Some beauty in my heart
Trying to accept the person I am
God knows it ain’t easy
Who knows the reason why?

Seize the time
Here comes my day in the summer sun
On summer days like these
But it slips through
What did you want?