Now to myself this comes as some surprise I’m sitting writing here a tuneless song My rusty hand’s in need of exercise For I’ve been far too lazy for too long In honeyed indolence I’ve spent my days I’ve watched the changing colours of the year I’ve watched the passing seasons through a haze And so my memory may not be clear I smoke a spliff and sip at my champagne A poet’s life is not an easy one A little sunshine and a lot of rain Is hardly my idea of having fun The layman sadly seems so unaware An honest poet’s life is full of care.
I am a writer. I am shy. I started writing poetry in my youth. I first performed in 1987 at the Avon Poetry Festival along side Bertel Martin of the Bristol Black Writers Workshop, supporting Benjamin Zephaniah.I gave my last poetry performance in 1992 at the Arnolfini gallery Bristol, supporting Labi Siffre during Poetry month.In 1998 for a year, I became the Resident Poet at Bristol Evening Post.I haven't written much since then but in 2014 I began exercising my rusty hand writing sonnets. I hope to continue writing in the coming year.
In my heart and my head there is an inky blackness that roars with a deafening silence As I stand so still in the tunnel of darkness, so still, like a boat between the swells of a tumultuous mountain I
To conquer my desire, I chose to battle alone. Armed with hope, Strength and courage Holding weapons of determination and perseverance Struggled, fought till the last blood sheds But.. Lost!!!!Defeated!!! People say “Life is like licking honey off a thorn”….Yes
The sun is now hiding its light And hope is fading in the darkness of the night Tears fell from your weary eyes Holding back the hardships in your heart I can tell it with your sigh. Teardrops glitter in
You heard what you wanted to hear You felt what you wanted to feel You ignored all the evidence to the contrary And resigned yourself to the fates But what you did not see Was the turmoil that started it
I’m a prisoner -A prisoner of my mind. I can’t be free. I can’t be me. Locked in by anxiety, interrogated by insecurity, and depression is barricading the door. With no room to breathe, I can feel my lungs collapse