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.
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
The years have passed by, In the blink of an eye. Moments of sadness, And joy has flown by. People I loved, Have come and have gone. But the world never stopped, And we all carried on. Life wasn’t easy,