Camel Dung Flu

Head aching
Nose running
Throat sore
Temperature high

It's not man flu this time
Its flu plus sand
mixed with camel dung
That causes my lungs

To heave and cough
and hurt
Especially when the
hump comes up.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Xmas in another Culture

It's the middle of Winter
But not cold
Not unlike the home of Xmas
But Maqqah centres here
not Jerusalem.

Incongruous images of red gentlemen
jangle or jingle
on the nerves
No mangers here
But plenty of camels.

Xmas is an empty season
work as usual
But give me the Eids
Anytime.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Vigil

Awake through the long night

Uncomfortably perched

on an airport recliner

8 hours of boredom.

A jolt of coffee

and a bite to eat

Opens the eyes

focusing the mind.

Now there is only

16hours of flying to go

until I return

to my 

Ithaca.

The Battle

Slowly my mind
turns over the
new words and
phrases
of another tongue.

He who has another
language has another
mind
or so the
philosophers
tell us.

But my brain aches as
I learn to speak
Arabic
bin Araby
Hal tatakallamu Al Araby?
I do
but only a little.

Still I know
that soon my brain
will stretch and turn
and accommodate
this new
way of conversing
Inshallah.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Man Flu

Shivering miserably on the sofa

Cold and not so well

poorly in fact

But she who

must be obeyed

Says I only have

Man flu...

Changing the View

It is not easy
to change
to embrace
something new
But growth comes from such attempts
driving our roots
deep into the
hardened soil
to find the sustenance deep
within.

Drive traffic to your Blog

On Leaving Again

On Leaving (Again)

Well old girl
I'm off again
leaving you behind
permanently

The wander or wonder
lust has gripped me
again and it's
Haere Ra
Aotearoa

Qatar Living

Doha
Splendid city
Exotic to me
Through Western eyes.

Sitting on a desert
beside the sea
resplendent
in beauty.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Oblivion

Why do we wish
for what we can not
have
and search for the
unsearchable?

What drives us from our homes
to scurry
to and fro
in the maelstrom of life?

I guess if we knew
we would not do
And if we did not do,
then what?

Oblivion?

Drive traffic to your Blog

Delight

Delight in the moment
In the small things
that happen.
Life is a momentary
phenomenon
lived between
the past
and future.

Be alive
to receive
what life gives you.
A laugh, a smile
the feel of warm air
on skin.
Enjoy before you die
where delight is no more
found.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Coleridge on Poetry

'I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is prose; words in their best order; - poetry; the best words in the best order.'

S.T.Coleridge

The best words in the best order. True, but O so hard to do. I guess this is a function of the focus needed to write good poetry. It is an act of labor as well as of love (or angst). Maybe that is why Coleridge took drugs LOL.
Drive traffic to your Blog

Venting via Poetry

Writing poetry is a very good venting mechanism for those times when you are angry, dissatisfied, annoyed or generally feeling upset. There is a catharsis in capturing your thoughts and reining them in. The Outlaw Poets are very accomplished in this form of venting.

You may in fact surprise yourself. I find that in such venting I often tap into some unconscious thoughts that I was unaware of. The words you use and their tone are often expressions of hidden and unexpressed thoughts.

So if you are angry, get it out and write a poem.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Poetic lassitude

Tired, listless and lacking
in poetic inspiration.
Languishing on the sofa
while words rush past
unacknowledged
without
the coralling
effect of rhyme
and form.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Poems that Grate - the Crow Poems

I know that he was the Poet Laureate but I have to say that the Crow poems written by Ted Hughes really grate on me. I could understand writing one poem on what Crow thinks, feels or does but when you have upward of thirty and they are all collected together, it's all abit too much. I am not given to mythology and mysticism so much of the poetry goes over my balding head. If you like this poetry (or not) the drop me a comment. Maybe I'm missing out on something awesome here.

Drive traffic to your Blog

On Growing Old

From whence the creaking bones
And muscle ache?
The brain fade and
Fatigue?

It comes of life
Lived well
Or more than well
Of dinners many
Exercises nil.

How short is our
Sojourn, how
Soon the reaper comes
And thought is dead.

Frank O'Hara - a tribute and found poem

This poem is composed from the first lines from the first 12 poems in Frank O'Hara's Lunch Poems.

If I rest for a moment near the Equestrian
The sun, perhaps three of them,one black one red, you
Quick! a last poem before I go
I watched and armory combing its bronze bricks
The black ghinkos snarl their way up
My love is coming in a glass.

It's my lunch hour, so I go
It is still raining and the yellow-green cotton fruit
Instant coffee with slightly sour cream
So many things in the air! soot
I am very happy to be here at the Villa Hugel
It is dirty.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Itinerary

My life has followed
an itinerary
unexpected
in its twists and turns.

I arrived when least expected
and left in
the winds of the
night.

I may come your way
or not
dependent
on
the whims of time.

NZ, Australia
U.S.A
U.K
France
to name a few.

The crossroads determine
my moves
on the itinerary
of life.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Crossroads

At the Cross Roads
I am waiting for you
Troubled and unsure

Feeling the pressure
Of indecision
And unease

Knowing that
Soon my mind
Will be made

And with enthusiasm
I will take the way
Of the beckoning
Future.

The Middle Ground

Draime, I am one of the mastered ones
you despised.
Yet I understand your pain
your anger
and admire your works.

Yet I am a poet
of the middle ground
with academe on the right
and the outlaws on the left
betwixt and between
the sanctity and the
street.

Between the altars
of the ivory towers
and the trashcans
of 32nd street.

Feeding my muse
as best I can
with foods
rich and inglorious.

Thanks to Paul Pindris whose reply to my post on Doug Draime, inspired this poem.

Doug Draime - Outlaw Poet

Doug Draime is counted as one of the Outlaw Poets. Illuminating Information is part of a poem called Six Poems.

Illuminating Information

They talked about “art” as
if it was some
perfect glistening
thing like a diamond
after the mining
and cleaning

I swept the floor
as they talked
I took out the trash
washed the dirty glasses

“Art” without the blood
and torment
Mickey Mouse
without the mouse
turds.

After they left I
cleaned the ashtrays
scrubbed the toilet
waxed the floor
did what I had to do.

“Art” had nothing
to do with their lives
“art” was a good movie
a concert in the park
created and performed
by people with masters degrees
and winter homes
in Arizona.

I clocked out
bought a couple beers
and went home
tomorrow was another day
of illuminating information

This poetic fragment illustrates, through Draime, the attitude of the outlaws to "Art" as performed by those with Masters degrees i.e academic and comfortable art.

Draime is waiting tables to pay for his artistic pursuits, far removed from grants, teaching scholarships and patronage.

Real poetry is ever thus. Raw poetry comes from raw circumstances.

Rotten Old Fever

Hey fever
don't get the hots for me
me real cool
ice cool
so stay away

I can feel your flaming
breath on my body
Shazam, away
me real cool, man
not hot
not feverish

You are too much
for me hot flu
I'm down and shivering
hot and cold
real NOT cool

if I had my way
you'd cool way down
and be hip like me
lying naked
on my bed
alone.

Derivative Lunch Poetry

I have only recently been exposed to the poems of Frank O'Hara. In particular I was drawn to one of his lunchtime poems titled, "The Day Lady Died", which is about his reactions to the death of Billie Halliday.

I purchased his book, "Lunchtime Poems", but have not got far in reading it yet. So today it got packed in with my lunch and I will read one poem a day. I suspect that this may lead me to write a series of lunchtime poems based on my own observations. Isn't derivation grand.

Babarian Snippet - Bruce Isaacson

While I was reading a poem by Bruce Isaacson (Lost My Job & Wrote This Poem) this line jumped up and hit me between the eyes: "I have strip mined love for poetry."

What a great idea. Strip mining causes a large mess, but is very efficient in exposing the substance being mined.

How many poems have been written about love since time immemorial? Countless numbers but I suspect only a handful were strip mined.

Yellow 34 Roadster

I'm sure when
Henry made
You,
that
You were coloured
Black.

So what in hell possessed
The guys to
Paint this sucker red?

Red would be
Improving
Cos blacks
A tardy dull

But Yellow
Looms like
A gravid
Banana
Doesn't.

Orange Monster

Squatting like
A flat orange
As only a flat orange
Can

The hot rod
Sat ready
For the skydiver
Or Juicer...

Note: Skydiver came up when
I misspelt juice

Pink is the Color of my True Loves Hot Rod

Poetry straight from the 2013 Hot Rod and Classics Car Show in Hamilton, New Zealand.

This is Grant, your poetic host slamming from 1940s America in 2013 New Zealand.

I can almost guarantee that I am the only poetic blogger at today's event so here we go:

Pink is the Color
Of my true
Loves hot rod.

It's travelled many miles
That rod
In tunnels pink
And black on
Many roads
Unseen by me
With winds behind
His back.

It's pink and hot
And throbbing now
With petrol in the tank
The tires are sharp
the con rods tight
The rings are ridden in
So here we go my darling
Hot riding here agin.

Alan you had green,
But really pink is best
Pinko commie bastards
Will never ride this beast.

So if you have a moment
Please do think of me
As I'm taking you all
On this a ride of
pinko poetry.

The Classic Car Show

We are off to the classic car show. I am sure that there will be some poem opportunities so look out for my next few posts. Brmm.

Who knows me may get a poem as good as Ginsberg's Green Automobile.

Babarian Poetry - thoughts of David Lerner

I am going to write a small series of posts about Babarian Poetry as described by David Lerner.

The term Babarian is not related to the Greek word barbaros which the Greeks used to describe non Greek speakers. The Greeks thought the foreigners sounded as though they were saying bar, bar, bar meaningless words.

The name actually comes from a poetry hangout in the Mission district of San Francisco called Cafe Babar. As Lerner says, "Poetry is committed there every Thursday night." Hence Babar-ian poetry.

The club draws from a very eclectic mix of clients: hookers, street people, college professors, kids with Mohawks and as Lerner so aptly describes them, "elderly gentlemen, alcoholic poets in twenty old year old suits.

More to follow.

The G+ Force Highway

G force is so yesterday man
Today we have the G+ man, man.
So cool
So new
Cruising with the buds
down the G+
information
highway, man
like so totally
awesome
dude.

Summers Evening at the Helm

Wonderful music flowing
Over me
As I sit and enjoy
A Summers night
At the Helm

Wind blowing
Around me cocooning
Me in warmth.

Diet Coke at my side.
A librarian for
Serious discussion

And me
Sitting like a Buddha
Contentedly.

Poetic Discovery - the Journey

“Come, my friend, let us enter the expanses of the Unknown Country. You will soon behold the original of your vision, the hope of humanity, and will rest in the land of Etidorhpa. Come, my friend, let us hasten.”

John Uri Lloyd’s from his book Etidorhpa

Writing poetry is a word adventure into an unknown land. I think as a poet, and I suggest that this is common to all poets, I am seeking to find the original of my vision. Our writing is a journey to find a vision, to explore the reason for what we write, why we are here.

Whether we ever end our journey this side of death is debatable.

Drive traffic to your Blog

The Goddess in the Cave

Without all is calm and demure
but within the cave
of her occupation
the goddess dwells
in splendid isolation.

But within her thrall
are many worshipers
of Eros
Who bow at her command
Who look in awe
at the goddess
within the cave
of no entry.

Be patient
less the goddess tires
and devours
your
very heart.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Parasitic Verse

I share Jack Spicer's philosophy that verse doesn't originate from within the poet's expressive will as a spontaneous gesture unmediated by formal constraints, but is "a foreign agent, a parasite that invades the poet's language and expresses what it wants to say"

A.D. Winans

I must say that I prefer the idea of the mystical muse. Parasitic invasion causing verse, is however, a novel thought.

The Mystic Muse

Unexpectedly you come
to my thoughts.
my poetic muse.
with eyes of liquid
brown opening
a gateway to your soul.

The conception of a poem
seeds itself deep within me.
From within your cave
you are calling
siren like
sultry and silent by day
but within the cave
the true fire is released.

Your call can not
be delayed
nor be ignored
the poetic urge must
have it's way...

Come to me
write as with your tongue
upon my opened mind
The poem, the muse,
the poet

explode upon the sheets
of the page.

Check out your Rank on Google+

I have just found a site that allows you to see where you rank on Google Plus (Google+). For your information I am only 83040 places below Lady GaGa who is at the top.

Go to Social Statistics to get your ranking then post it the comments section. How popular are you really?

I am working to get below 80,000th.

Cheers

Grant

Drive traffic to your Blog

The Boneyard Boys aka The Graveyard Poets

"Though Casabianca and The Burial of Sir John Moore are actually nineteenth-century poems, they partake of that misty, moss-and-granite melancholy one associates with those of Gray’s contemporaries known as the Graveyard Poets (or the Boneyard Boys). These were a pallid bunch, for whom cemeteries were what bars and brothels would be for many French poets of the nineteenth century—a comfy home away from home. They were continually reminding us that we all have one foot in the grave.

Brad Leithauser

Read more: New Yorker - Why we should memorize

It takes all sorts of poets to make up the poetic universe but I loved Leithauser's description of the Graveyard Poets as the Boneyard Boys. I'll stick to bars and coffee shops myself.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Poets Aiming with a Uzi - Head, Heart or Crotch?

"A poet takes aim at one of three areas: the head, the heart or the crotch. Occasionally, all three can be scoped in one piece if you have an eye for poetic detail or if the poet's imagination has an affinity for the uzi. Once in a while a poet comes along who can take aim and ignite every atom in one's being."

Nelson Gary talking about Todd Moore.

Wow - what a great thought. I can be a poetic sniper with a poetic uzi. The imagery is very outlawish. Sometimes I aim for the head, usually the heart and only rarely the crotch. I have certainly had the experience with a poet that Nelson Gary is talking about. The two poets who come to mind who have done this to me are Frank O'Hara and James. K. Baxter.

Drive traffic to your Blog

Guest Post: Master of Your Domain - a response poem

The poem below is a response by Paul Pindris to my poem Poopoo or Sex. My poem in itself was a response to a blog post about a quotation from Charles Bukowski. Paul is a great response poet so look out for him on Google+.

Master of Your Domain

Just minutes can we all forsake
The breaths that most for granted take.
One’s thirst, there’s but three days to slake,
Though weeks to eat, before the grave.
Since Eden’s loss we suffer bare,
And so must have but aught to wear.
The weather, often harsh, indeed,
Demands a refuge ‘gainst that need.

But things that each need to survive
Are more than what keeps us alive.
Regardless of what clock we keep
Eventually we all must sleep.
A wish to put off when to void --
We might delay, but can’t avoid.

The urge to mate, too, ceases not.
With puberty is cast our lot.
Though some immerse in God or Art,
Those carnal thoughts never depart.
If all alone, with no recourse,
A fantasy serves well, of course.

Paul Pindris

Drive traffic to your Blog

Poopoo or sex

Did Bukowski have it right?
Does it really
come down
to poopoo or sex...

Seventy years without sex
can be done
I'm sure
but not by this poet
but several poopoo free days can cause death

I'm a sex poet
not a poopoo poet
But don't get me wrong
Sometimes
a good poopoo
beats the crap
out of sex.

Drive traffic to your Blog

The Outlaw Poetry Network

Today I'm putting in a plug for a wonderful site called The Outlaw Poetry Network
This site has fantastic poetry for those renegades, outlaws and rogues who like pure, gut wrenching poetry.

Check this link for an awesome poetry is dangerous poster

Drive traffic to your Blog

Rogue Poet

Rogue Poet waking
to another morn.
Smells the city
garbage, smoke,and
Feels the chilling cold
behind the dumpster.

Brunch of stale bread,
behind the East End bakery.
Lunch a swig of port
no meat, no protein diet.
An evening soiree with
other poets
at the university
of hard knocks...

But still the stub penciled poems
come, between
the times
of disordered thought.

But free from the constraints
of trope and critic,
his poetry
speaks to those
dispossessed of earthly gain
huddling around
the beggars brazier.



Drive Traffic to your Blog

Tool to build Blog Traffic

If like most of us bloggers you are looking for more eyes to your blog try this new tool called BlogClicker. You view others blogs and in return others visit your blog.

Join Here if you are interested in getting more blogs viewers.

Help The MBSPoet fund his poetry

A Matter of Degrees

Does the poet need degrees
to explicate upon the world?
To write the verse unknoweable
outside the ivy
coterie.

I think they do.
they do you know,
degrees of hunger, loss
and pain.

Of nature and depravity
of joy, and tears
degrees of our humanity.



Help The MBSPoet fund his poetry

I am Old and Grumpy

Don't believe the bumph,
Old people can be mean and grumpy
We've played the game,
We rode the baby boom wave.

Stand aside we're moving through
the market
the demographics
and God help
the rest homes
and hospitals
when we arrive en masse.

We'll have rock bands, bandanas
Woodstock memories
Mary Jane
Loud music
Man, it will be great.

So look out I'm old
and grumpy
and I'm heading for a
Jugular near you...

I am growing old disgracefully :)

Help The MBSPoet fund his poetry

I am not against academic poets

Those of you who read my last polemic may have thought that I am anti-academic poetry. For the record I am not. Academia and academic poets have a lot to offer (e.g. I recently completed the Modern and Contemporary American Poetry course from UPenn that was available as a MOOC and this course has changed my attitudes to and appreciation of poetry).

My complaint was more about some academics and notaries (not all of academia, Thank God) laying claim to the ownership of poetry, and claiming that lay people can not understand modern poetry.

Poetry belongs to all. Poetry expresses human experience in all of it's shades and hues. Prison poetry is just as valuable as academic poetry. They just have different audiences.

With the return of performance and slam poetry in the wider community, poetry is reaching out and this is good for all poets and poetry lovers.



Help The MBSPoet fund his poetry

I am ANGRY - What a Crock

I have just come across this objectionable piece of bovine fecal material about the reason why less people read poetry these days. What a crock...

In an address to the Association of Writers & Writing Programs this February, the president of the Poetry Foundation, John Barr, described how the popular poet writing for the common reader essentially disappeared with the advent of Modernism. The 19th-century model of poets publishing in mainstream venues such as newspapers was replaced by the 20th-century model, in which the increasing fragmentation and difficulty of poetry required specialists to discern it, moving it into the college classroom. Today, to call a poem "accessible" is practically an insult, and promotional events like National Poetry Month are derided by many poetry diehards as the reduction of a complex and often deeply private art form to a public spectacle.

John Barr is completely wrong. Many are sick of this insipid, arid, anemic, wish-washy, dishwater served up in academia today.

I am offended as a common writer and reader. I deliberately steered away from post graduate training in poetry just because of people such as John Barr. I want to feel, and live and be a common, as opposed to a college, poet.

Rebels arise and condemn this academic led heresy...

Do such people know about slam poetry, outlaw poetry, the poetry of the streets.. I doubt it.

GIVE US BACK POETRY FOR THE COMMON READER.


Help The MBSPoet fund his poetry

Response Poetry

Response poetry is not a new phenomenon. One of the earliest examples is Raleigh's response to Marlowe in the Nymph - Shepherd poems. The playful or veangeful response to another's poetry has been a century's old game.

W. Todd Kaneko (2008) in a paper about response poetry noted some points about writing a response to someones else's poems. For the body around these points click the response poetry link above.

1. Write a reply to the poem.

2. Imitate the form of the poem.

3. Build off a primary metaphor that the poem works from.

4. Steal the first line of the poem.

5. Use a passage as an epigraph.

6. Turn Prose into Verse.

7. Write the opposite of the poem.

I encourage you to read Kaneko's paper to get a fuller explanation along with examples.


Help The MBSPoet fund his poetry

Guest Post - Morning Muse

The poem below was written as a challenge and response to my poem Night Time Stealth Poetry. Now I know whose bed the muse jumps into after mine. The poet is Paul Pindis

My Morning Muse

She slips beside me in my bed.
As yet, all others have not stirred.
She plants a kiss that says she’s here,
And once again my mind is hers.

I might attempt to close my eyes,
To hold off thoughts she chose to seed.
One might as well try block the sun
As not pursue what she’s decreed.

The inspiration that she brings,
Like clockwork, every day at dawn,
Will not delay a moment more.
I’m nothing but my muse’s pawn.

A mistress that won’t be denied,
‘Tis folly to think I’d complain.
For with her tasks she brings the gifts
No poet ever would disdain.

And here is my poem being which is being responded to.

Night Time Stealth Poetry

Why is night the time
To vent my spleen
Upon the page?

At night
The stillness creeps
entering
into my consciousness
like a stealthy cat,

Maybe the day is far to real
To allow me
To wander, explore and
Inhabit the place
That lies
Between my mind
and heart.

The place called the
Night Time Stealth and Poetry,
Arcade.

DK



Thanks Paul for rising to the challenge.

I now have a new genre of poetry called response poetry...

Grant


Help The MBSPoet fund his poetry

Poetry App for iPhone and iPad

Hi All

I am plugging the Poetry Foundations application called Poetry which is available for the iPad and iPhone. It has thousands of categorised poems, contemporary and older and when you spin it gives a list of poems across two parameters e.g. 49 poems on BLAME & NATURE (Check out Electrocuting an Elephant); 151 poems on HUMOR and LIFE
and 31 poems on BOREDOM & YOUTH. There are more combinations than I have time to outline in this quick post.

I find that I need to read copious amounts of poetry to keep my own creative juices flowing. A day without poetry is a nightmare.

Check it out and let me know what you think.
Help The MBSPoet fund his poetry

Fragments of New Zealand

Barbecues, jandals and the long hot summer
Soaring mountains, clean fast-flowing rivers
virgin bush.

Can do, she'll be right
attitude
Yeah right Tui ads.

Kiwis, Kiwi Burgers
Maori and Pakeha
Treaty of Waitangi
1840.

Nuclear free, proud of it
and don't forget the
Rainbow Warrior.

Michael Joseph Savage, Norm Kirk, Keith Holoyoake
Gentleman Jack, David Lange and Spud Bolger.

Aotearoa
Land of the Long White Cloud.


Help The MBSPoet fund his poetry

A.R Ammons - eclectic poet

Ammons was known as an eclectic poet in his time (he died in 2001).

The New York Times had the following to say:

Typing some of his work on long strips of adding-machine tape, Mr. Ammons wrote more than 25 books of poetry, including ''Garbage,'' a 1993 book-length poem that won him his second National Book Award.

It was one of many prizes that he collected in his long literary career, which he started while in the Navy in World War II. His honors included the Tanning Prize for ''mastery in the art of poetry,'' a MacArthur fellowship, the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize and the Frost Medal for Achievement in Poetry Over a Lifetime.

In 1973 he received a National Book Award for his ''Collected Poems: 1951-1971,'' and in 1974 he was awarded the Bollingen Prize in Poetry of the Yale University Library for ''Sphere: The Form of a Motion.''

It's good to see the re-use of adding-machine tape.

One of his poems called Poetics is reproduced below:

I look for the way
things will turn
out spiraling from a center,
the shape
things will take to come forth in

so that the birch tree white
touched black at branches
will stand out
wind-glittering
totally its apparent self:

I look for the forms
things want to come as

from what black wells of possibility,
how a thing will
unfold:

not the shape on paper -- though
that, too -- but the
uninterfering means on paper:

not so much looking for the shape
as being available
to any shape that may be
summoning itself
through me
from the self not mine but ours.

I particularly liked the phrase, from what black wells of possibility.


Help The MBSPoet fund his poetry

Fragments of Oakland

Coffee and the BART
Berkeley and East Oakland
stylish hip dress
and jazz to die for.

Dangerous but bubbling with life
infused with color
and a cacophony of sounds.

The Best Western
Marriott
Jack London Square
The pub with the sloping floor
on the waterfront.

The bar by the fruit market
Ferry to SF
Gumbo food...

Radical is Good

Complacency sits
with its smug, self-satisfied smirk.
The self righteousness of
death before life.
Give me the razor sharp,
acerbic tongue anytime,
so that I might
squirm in turmoil
and feel alive.

Give me the bearded and pierced radical
with fiery breath
and sworded tongue
The polemic voice
that shatters all of
our comfortable
dogma

Live on the edge
and feel the pain
the cold, the hunger
of the poor and dispossessed

Capitalism stinks
Communism stinks
all the isms stink
Bring back the prophet
the bard
the radical
the poet.

Fragments of England

Snow, the Toon, Newcastle Brown Ale
Trees, parks, pristine fields.
The Underground, Metro and Railways,
Newcastle to London at 6am,
London to Newcastle at 6.05pm.
Castles, walls, history,
Literature, poetry.

Bronte, Woolf, Bloomsbury
Garsington, Sissinghurst,
Monks House, Charleston,
Leonard, Hogarth Press.
London, Birmingham, Nottingham
Hove, Shar, Hooriyah, Soleman.
Seamus, Andre and Yuliya
NUTH, Royal Berkshire.

The Black Swan, Victory
Millstone and Bacchus.












Help The MBSPoet fund his poetry

Surround Sound

Wind whispering seductively,
Traffic rumbling
Annoyingly.
A holiday afternoon
On the sofa of a friend.
By a park
Surrounded by sound,
With wind chimes tinkling,
To the accompaniment of
Relaxation.

Azaria Joy

Bright eyed and inquisitive,
A baby full of life,
Curious explorer, exploring
With eyes and mouth
Hands and skin.

Five months
Young
With the genes
Of manifold
Generations...

Azaria brings joy.