Biography of Andy Brookes
- Dawns Departing Dreams -new-
- Deus Est Mortuus Sed Spiritus Vitae -new-
- Crossings -new-
- Subtitles -new-
- New Paths, Old Ways -new-
- Changing View -new-
- Circulatory Or The Egotism Of Poets -new-
- On Visiting A Picasso Mural -new-
- Cursed Consumers -new-
- Stone Dead -new-
- Christmas Present?
- Awaiting Sentence
- I Have Left The Building
Andy Brookes Poems
I'm Only Human
I work my fingers to the bone, And I know I shouldn't moan. Not get upset about my work, If criticised by some jerk.
Lamination's Or Dreaming Giants
Curds of life washed up on seashore, the lanterns guiding us home, we are but ripples in time, wrinkles upon the shore, washed clean but our spirits resonates through time.
Get rid old pages, lose the dross, throw them out it is no loss. look at the old and the new, then up in smoke and up the flue.
the trees look sad today bare branched and lonely birds have deserted for sunnier climbs.
Spinning Yarns With Woolly Thoughts
Every day I spin yarns out of grey wool only to see them unravel in my dreams. Everyday I fool my self,
Not searching For my true mother's love. Nor searching for her being.
I am stopped. a harsh light examines my existence Silenced literally, vocal chords stilled.
Its Sunday I'm bored being and at a loose end, must do something or I'll go round the bend. seeing there's an antique fair at the Reebok, thinking I'll goand have quick look.
Tweeting And Twitching
The loose knit morning rose cold though it was it had opportunity endless the robin tells me, by his red flash,
Her Inner Beauty Is Forever Young
Her reflection told her the facade was crumbling, each day a little more camouflage added with artful paint applied. the hair once soft is brittle, a colour nature never intended. her stockings a little thicker and supporting to hide the veins,
No poet I, just a weaver of words the warp and weft of daily life. like a miller I grind my corn separating the chaff from the wheat.
When the dark shades of evening come to call Dusky light fadesand all to shadows fall. Gently the soft air the grass does thrum, A tune the moon to call, the start of night.
Empty yet the bright eyes of stained glass Are lit with the glow of a thousand candles Smoky with frankincense and Myrrh
So there is was, a recipe, was it, I asked, poetry? well for her it was a shared experience and why not. my recipe when making poetry.
Pic 'N Mix
I'm a strange creature, you must agree,
Not insect, fowl nor out the sea.
Not marsupial, mammal or duck,
I'm all three, just my luck.
I swim underwater, with feet that are webbed,
And scrabble on land for I am four legged.
And if you see me, you'll think me absurd,
Because you see, I have a beak like a bird.
Don't live in a nest, but like a mole