Formal and Polite, Poetry

Ten to Nine

To Lucy who always leaves Bath Improv drop ins at ten to nine.

Lucy, when thou art at your most fine,
You rush away at ten to nine
Bubbling baths of salts and wine,
Can’t be more tempting than the line
Which thou dost blurt out so divine
Leaving us for you to pine.

What lover awaits in the dead of night,
With palms unread for he keeps them tight
Art thou afeared you’ll cause a plight
And make him vanish from your sight?
Our ten minutes ache when your Zoom takes flight
As our once wise poems lose their might.

Cufărul cu versuri, Poetry

Scrânciobul lui bunicu

Mărul din grădina bunicilor, noduros și cenușiu,
Șade-n umbra dealurilor de fân pline,
Florile cosite își dau suflarea de parfum sfios,
Noi ne dăm de-a tumba pe greblatele coline.

– Fă-ne scrânciob bunicule, chicotim îmbujorați
Bunicu lasă coasa grea și se pune pe urcat,
Mărul ascultă, îl cunoaște, își apleacă coama gri
Pădurețe sar pe pietre ca în jocuri de copii.

Brațul harnic și vânos învârte lanțul de o cracă
Și-ncet coboară parcă un pui de leagan dintr-o arcă 
Noi îl încoronăm cu scândurica de lemn moale și duios
Și ne-ntrecem cine poate să se așeze mai frumos.

Bunicu coboară lin precum vântul cald al verii
Limpede el ne privește cu lumina învierii,
Ia găleata și culege merele căzute-n iarbă
Oile behăie din poartă, sunând vesel din talangă.

-Hai la diresală, strigă bunica cocoțată în gireadă
Bunicu ia coasa pe umăr, nepoții grebluțele grămadă,
Numai eu rămân în scrânciob, privind mărul nostru în șoaptă,
Verii strigă, hai la fân, măi Anuți alună coaptă!

Flowers and People, Poetry

True Beauty

Morning dew on sweet rose petals,
Awake thy mouth to-a hearty song
Though my lips are coarse as nettles,
They are wise and not headstrong.

Fresh and scented is thy gaze,
In the light of rising suns
Though my eyes are dry with haze,
They avert from charming sons.

I hope we meet in time of trial,
The outside oft reflects the deep
Where the soul soars from defile,
The body’s climb is very steep.

Formal and Polite, Poetry

The Collector

Vincent sips his coffee in a French cafe
With a perfumed scarf and a creme brulee,
He watches people live their lives
With a pen in his hand and feverish eyes

A lady with the air of a delicate swan
Enters his gaze as she glides like a pawn,
To checkmate his heart, while his hand writes
And dashes three ticks on the page’s sides.

‘Dances ballet and plays the flute,
Can read for hours as an enchanted mute,
Her mind, as firm as her two bare toes,
But her heart is as wild as a mountain rose.’

Vincent smiles then strikes off the rows,
On her wild heart and hard boiled toes,
‘Interesting – but too hard to keep,
With a mind of her own that might take me too deep.’

He rips off the page with meticulous fingers
And folds it neatly as the feeling lingers,
With a shake of his head the paper slides loose,
In a box labelled simply “for future use”.

Chasing the Light Poetry, Poetry

We build

Stone and brick, iron and steel,

We build strong walls along the street,

Man-made structures now the Heavens seal

And pluck the grass from underneath our feet.


We’re civilized, dignified and educated,

Technology is pouring from our walls,

We are connected, yet so disconnected,

Stone-faced at the beggar’s calls.


I am that beggar, a face in the crowd,

Begging to see and to be seen,

You give me change to buy my shroud,

And walk on spraying your hands clean.


Machines are moving in the shadows

Of great men of high esteem.

Their ash falls down with quiet woes

As foreign hands build up their dream.


Today don’t build, but listen, friend,

To that last robin from the tree

Water the roses, to your garden tend,

And show the beggar you once more can see.

My Little Adventures, Poetry

The Little Surfer

Waves crash against my heart
With the strength of a hundred voices
From the deepest ocean part
Giving me strength to make bold choices.

My nimble limbs hang onto thee,
Oh smallest of all ships of man
And though you bruise and twist my knee
You take me safely to dry land.

A wave is like a thousand tales,
With many plots and twists and turns
Some raised with offshore veils,
Others bold from ground swell storms.

The captain of the ships stands strong,
With the whole sea against his chest
‘Don’t be afraid to get it wrong.’
He gives us courage when we rest.

Why do we ride the waves?
Are we worthy of their strength?
We can’t tame them, only gaze
How our spirits bind at length.

Now I sit here, on this train,
Filled with bruises, cuts and burns
But the biggest wound of all
Is leaving heaven at Sagres.

Chasing the Light, Chasing the Light Poetry, Poetry

The Invisible King

Light, light of the heavens above,
Where shinest thou, we are bare of love.
Light that fillest the earth,
Invisible king of wisdom, give birth
To hearts that will lead us on the path
Which shows a calling we had before wrath,

Darkness approaches but we are aflame,
Hiding our voices in the howlin rain,
Our minds bring words to search for your face,
But our hearts sculpt your likeness in the hidden place
You are forever silent but we know how you speak,
Holding the keys to the kingdom we seek.

(From Voice Mountain and Chasing the Light)

Chasing the Light Poetry, Poetry

They Speak of Truth

Christ my Lord, my love, my truth,
In my heart you are forever king,
But people try to lock your voice
In endless chains of suffering.

They speak of virtue, art and meaning,
But are afraid to speak Your name
They seek the light and softly mould their words,
And drown Thy presence in names of fame.

I ache, for I have been transformed,
Through crafts of men that seek the truth,
My friend, it is not you that brightens up the day
But thy eternal Father, who brings you youth.

So I must speak…Christ, Christ, Christ!
The sweetest Word in all the world,
I need not movement nor technique
To weep in silence at Your feet.

Formal and Polite, Poetry

The Shiny Shoes

Hubert Rhubarb makes great shoes
Of all sizes, shines and soles,
Him, George Ginger and Bob Booze,
Are co-craftsmen at “Stuffed Holes”.

They’re all shoeglots from the Shoeglot clan
With round noses, crass hands and tiny feet,
They shuffle quickly with their plan,
To make bright shoes for King Plum’s fleet.

Hubert Rhubarb was ordered by the king
To make the brightest shoes of all,
‘My men’s feet should sparkle as this ring,
When sailing back with the victory call’.

On the day of King Plum’s battle
The men shone bright from head to toe.
They were so proud they caused a rattle
Competing in whose shoes had the best glow.

The enemy fleet of King Pomhen
Sailed anxiously to meet its doom,
But seeing the distracted men
They shook off their prior gloom.

King Plum’s soldiers stared at their shoes
Flinging their swords round without aim,
Neither brother nor king made such great muse
As gawping at their feet, bent, without shame.

The king returned with a dozen men
Weeping that their feet were bare
The king wrote to “Stuffed Holes” again
‘From now, dull shoes are my men to wear.’