Poet Shed Scribbles. Thoughts. Ideas.


Inside You

Here’s a poem I’ve just completed. It’s just a simple idea about love – my favourite subject. Let me know what you think, if you have a moment. Inside You It seems a lot of work just for a kiss but I’d build a universe again for another. Anyone who imagines love is not the cause may never have been kissed by someone like you. I’m not afraid to say being inside you was the...

Ruins of a Church

Our landscape is littered with ruins telling us stories of other times. They are like old photos found deep in the heart of some forgotten album. Who doesn’t like to stay a while at such places and imagine what it would have been like to live when such places were full of life and living. The church was once at the epicentre of life for many people. It gave them hope. We cannot imagine the...

Don’t Lose Sight

I believe that a synthesis of Christianity and Buddhism would be a great way forward for the future of religion and humanity. This synthesis may not be easy from a theological point of view but shouldn’t be too difficult from a poetic perspective. I believe Poetic Faith needs to be taken seriously. It has no affiliation to any religion but can perceive the Ultimate – God – in everyday experience...


today today is tomorrow and yesterday and wild garlic and fluttering wings and my notebook and worms tunnelling under our gardens and migrating geese and sunshine and the lakeside where the kids used to bathe and mountains in pasture and blankets to lay on and sorrow and bees collecting nectar and emails to delete and questions. are we people wrapped in thinking we’re safe? are we a joke...

Time to Waste

Time To Waste I have half an hour to waste and I need to piss. I stand alone at the urinal expecting the door to swing open - it doesn’t. I have twenty-five minutes to waste and I’m in the supermarket café. I sit and watch people sat in rags and tatty narratives. I watch small buckets of caffeine being sipped and headless mirth rising into clouds of noise. I have twenty minutes to waste. I choose...

In Praise of Tangles

In Praise of Tangles What is this thing called love that tangles our hair, untidies our thoughts, stains our hands and lips and fills our journals with incoherent scribble? How old must we be to have put love in its small box, hoovered it out of our minds, opened insurance against its loss and forsaken the need for the taste and smell of it? What is this thing called life that oozes out of us...

Poet Shed Scribbles. Thoughts. Ideas.


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