You are yourself not someone else
Do not decry, dare not deny
When asked or told you’re something less
Stand proud and say, I’m me.
For love was a wonderful sight
And love was the hour of darkness
That came along in morning’s depths
And shared some spurious thoughts.
The fresh cut grass, that summer scent
That smell of summer, Heaven sent
I used to squeeze it in my fingers
Shreds of green, its smell still lingers.
The rooftops of Italia’s Alps stand neatly in a row
And down below a river flows by a road that no-one knows,
Puffs of cloud look just like smoke as though the sky’s on fire,
They nestle upon these alpine peaks, growing ever higher.
We see this coarse or vile and give it other names
But when it gets right down to it, it’s all the bloody same
Did you blow off, or trump, the smell will let you know
Did you let one off or let one rip or did you let one go
Every time I hit the town
A dozen faces turn around
Tonight we’ll dance then sleep ‘til dawn
Says the angel with the black dress on.
(Written on the bus going home from work after a very brief
meeting with an elderly patient in Charing Cross Hospital) .
Confused and dazed he walks the ward, day and night,
A poet is like the artist
With a blank canvas
He or she can be anyone
Have you ever walked along the street, on your way to work
And took a look down at your feet and felt a proper burk?