Conker

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Conker

You are round
like my arguments,
you are light
like my gravitas.
I found you and
now you are mine.

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Afternoon Walk

With each plodding foot against
the gravel I strain to hear
your voice.
Can I hear your heartbeat
over this slow, rhythmic,
crushing sound?
Perhaps you’re in the wind,
rustling high in the trees?
The rugged, rusting, yellow digger
stands for progress.
Its windscreen
is now cracked.
Some local youths perhaps.
What is progress anyway?
And now I’m reminded
that all you want
is a willing heart and a
life completely surrendered
to your will.
I make my way home.

The Stewpot

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The Stewpot

When I’ve finished a poem, I find
it best not to mess about with it
too much. Well, not at first anyway.

It’s like the poem needs to be
set to one side. To settle, or may I say
to stew for a while.

To soften the edges, to remove any
awkward words and  make it flow
like silken honey from a spoon.

Sweet to the senses,
alluring to the soul
and nectar to the spirit.

And so. In this one goes.
Into my simmering stewpot
of poems, along with the rest.

Perhaps, someday, it will
re-emerge and take its place
on the world stage.

Going to ground

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Going to ground

He slinks through the
crowd with his head
bent forward
under his hooded sweatshirt.

Checking no one is looking,
he surreptitiously opens the
door to his flat. The radio and TV
allude to nothing.

The usual sounds rise
from the playground gaining
uninvited access through
the window as though
nothing had happened

With his conscience
now being slowly numbed
by the slow passing of time,
a can of lager and his favourite
team playing on the TV.