A New Autumn | Poetry

Today felt like a new


Brisk and intrigued

A crisp, fresh breeze

A whisper of

Winter in the air

That chill, the dew

Pursed on my lips

That promise of

Crunched leaves underfoot

Today felt like a new 


An autumn with a new

Golden path to begin upon.


Mist-ed Coffee Morning (poem)

a memory trapped in a coffee shop

its mist-ed rained window panes

sheltering us from the air

letting us hide

for a moment longer

in the steam cloud of secrets

pretending it wasn’t about to end

Day Jobs Aren’t Forever (poem)


Day jobs aren’t forever.
They are for now. For bills.
For the kids, the rent, the tax.

Day jobs are for the sanity.
For knowing you’re working.
Hardworking in bad times.

Day jobs aren’t just day jobs.
They are the social hub of life.
The place to laugh and scream,
To bitch about bad bosses and bad pay.

Day jobs keep us bobbing along,
Keep us afloat when we can’t go further.

Day jobs keep us funded; funded for who we really are.

A means to an end.

Day jobs let you be a surfer, a writer, a dancer, a boxer, an artist.

Day jobs aren’t forever. But they help us be us.

Help us leave our mark on the world.

Help us be forever.

I Don’t Believe In Writer’s Block

I don’t believe in writer’s block:

if you can still write your name,

you can write all the other words too.

If you can still sign your name

you can sign the end of your new book.


I don’t believe in writer’s block

because colours never fade.

And even when the seasons change,

we still have our pens,

and the colours remain the same.


I don’t believe in writer’s block

because eyes are still open

and they view lives everyday.

So how can you have writer’s block

when you just copy their stories anyway?


I don’t believe in writer’s block

when there is so much happening in the world.

I don’t believe in writer’s block

when there are mysteries to be unfurled.


I don’t believe in writer’s block…

I don’t believe in writer’s block…

But I think I have it now.

I’m struggling to type these words for you

I have no ending, somehow.


I don’t believe.

I don’t have…


I think I’ve got writer’s block, dammit. 

Sunday Morning | Humour Poetry


with empty cans,

avoid the kebab (on your right!)

Ignore the mess in front of the corner shop

don’t even think about going near vodka today…

Vision’s feeling a bit shit, can’t tell if it’s my head or not

Feeling my brain shrinking quickly – the flashbacks start,

oh god, did we do that, go there, again? ‘Sorry’ text sent!

But morning’s come, and we’ve made it to bed.

Let’s cuddle up before the hangover sets in

and sugar candy coat the night before.

Thank god it’s Sunday morning:

eat your bacon and shut up!