Wild Bill Balding
Of Welsh descent, Bill Thomas is currently a teacher of Religious Studies, History & Astronomy at Tewkesbury School in Gloucestershire, UK. As well as writing & performing poetry, in his spare time he takes pictures of postboxes & plays Subbuteo (flick-to-kick table soccer) . He is married, with two stepchildren & a permanent puzzled expression while trying to look for things that were there just a moment ago. more »
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Wild Bill Balding Poems
hormonal soup pulsing, congealing; chrysalis carapace throbbing, cracking;
Shitty Kitty City
There's a lobby by my study where my visitors may enter which, since we got the kittens, has a dirtbox at the centre. They're still too young to go outside, that's why I ask for pity: they've turned my quiet oasis into Shitty Kitty City.
God is a verb
God is a verb, not a noun: 'I am who I am, I will be who I will be.'
Good Dog, Bad Dog
Why is it when I'm doing what dogs do, what dogs are designed to do, then I'm a Bad Dog?
Damn the fence!
My spirit paces like a captive bear, set limits by a fence of tempered steel, that with its shadows marks its deadening seal on concrete ground that passes for my lair.
To a teenage stepson
When you are older with a place of your own I will come and visit at awkward moments, and lean on the doorbell until you answer. I shall piss over your toilet seat, the carpet,
I want you, but can I trust you? The things you say excite me, but I’ve heard them said before: sweet words dry up too soon,
The fridge sits purring happily in the corner of my kitchen, well-behaved, domesticated, house-trained even.
(On seeing Umberto Boccioni's 1911 painting 'States of Mind-The Farewells') Couples kiss in khaki shadows, cascading into carriages' cavernous mouths.
Hue & Cry
Prussian, powder, ultramarine, cerulean and idanthrene, manganese, monestial, turquoise, navy, duck egg, royal,
Into the warm, inviting yellow twists a brush loaded with blue. Surprised, suspicious, the shades swirl round each other,
The Mars Bar
(A friend's uncle once asked why there weren't any poems about Mars Bars. This is why.) Nails glinting in the glow of candlelight, she grips the bar and gently pulls apart
Strange at school how all our dads had got VCs in the war, charging machine guns,
So, Year 7, What Will You Do When You Gr...
Will wants to be a TV presenter, Matthew a cricketer, Charlotte a nurse. Nathan has his heart set on being a mechanic - and Gareth wants to be a crayon.
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Edgar Allan Poe
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through paper jaws...
transformed, transfigured -
let me dry my wings.