When he bursts into the room at the crack of dawn, 
When every moment is a new world waiting to be born, 
When just one smile 
lifts the gloom 
and lights up a room, 
If that doesn’t make the poetry come, what will? 

When he stands out on the balcony and waves and laughs, 
When his smiling face fills a thousand photographs, 
When he gets down 
on one knee 
to pull my shoelaces free, 
If that doesn’t make my heart sing, what will? 

When this ravaged world for a while seems pure, 
When unbridled joy is momentarily the cure, 
When he finally climbs into bed, 
humming and brimming with words unsaid, 
If that doesn’t still this weary heart, what will?

New Country

our life should be magic 
we should live in a new and ever- 
changing world there should 
be wonders 
mountains 
unexplored villages 
with small golden people 
our clothing simple 
a foreign language 
which we speak 
and just understand.
      
-- Richard Donnelly

Bullets and Stars

We have felled the final forests, 
and picked the last few flowers; 
We’ve run blades across our bodies, 
and marvelled at the scars; 
We've sold our souls for pennies,
maxed out our credit cards, 
The guns will soon be going off, 
we’re just counting down the hours. 

But for every bullet that is fired, 
there are still a thousand stars. 
For every bullet that is fired, 
there are still a thousand stars. 

We’ve made heroes of our monsters, 
and put justice behind bars; 
We’re heading towards the precipice, 
in new self-driving cars, 
We’ve constructed a bloody future, 
with the hollow bones of our past; 
And when the wars on earth have ended, 
we will move our guns to Mars. 

But still for every bullet that is fired, 
there will be a thousand stars. 
For every bullet that is fired, 
there are still a thousand stars.

It is that time of year 
when time seems to both lurch forward 
and stand still at the same time. 
A new year has slipped 
through the door, 
but I don’t have the weapons for war; 
I can’t shake the feeling 
that I’ve been here before. 

Helplessness. 
A planet in turmoil. 
The coalition of the good in retreat, 
seemingly no match 
for the footsteps that swell to a drumbeat 
as they come ever closer. 

This is us. This is our home 
which we don’t even own and yet, 
we are hollowing it out 
even as we shout 
Happy New Year to anyone who cares to listen. 

*****

Meanwhile, 
on the fridge, 
magnets remind me 
of the places I have been. 
Bookmarks in the pages of 2015. 

But the real reminder is ourselves. 
We are the places we have been,
We are the sunrises we have seen,  
We are all the moments we have laughed and cried 
and everything in between. 

What is a life well lived? 
A life that gives; 
that lovingly tends 
to the little flicker of hope 
in the hope that it will burst 
one day into glorious flame. 
A life that loves. 
A life that refuses to be defined 
by ever-present fear. 
A life that says Happy New Year 
and then never stops striving 
to make it so.

 

About four months ago,
I watched from my window 
as a newly-married couple 
posed in its shade. 
I remember smiling to myself 
as they smiled for the camera,
embracing in its embrace; 
sunlight dancing through 
the branches, 
on which new leaves were sprouting; 
a celebration of spring 
and new beginnings. 

A mere two weeks ago, 
it was resplendent in yellow; 
some leaves swayed 
in the noticeably crisper breeze 
while others fell to the ground 
without a sound 
like autumnal snow. 

And yet now, 
a stump is all that remains; 
the only reminder of what once was. 
The sun shines on it still, 
but there is no more shade;
no hint of a shadow. 

How easily we destroy 
what we didn't even create. 
How we teach the heart to forget 
the things we used to know, 
and leave them- dusty, 
stripped of meaning,
like unwanted items 
on the shelves of shops that no-one visits.

For APJ

Today the nation mourns a man 
who, when thwarted in his attempts to fly a jet, 
aimed for outer space instead. 
And for 83 years, lived a life less ordinary. 

A visionary. 
A man who believed in the power of dreams 
to light a spark of imagination and ignite our minds. 
A man who defied categorisation, 
and the usual norms of style and convention. 
Whose casual demeanour 
belied a staggering intellect, 
and yet, was helpful, thoughtful, and kind. 
A man who loved his country, 
and its people. 
Who knew that greatness lay within, 
and made it is his mission 
to help us be better than ourselves. 

A good man. 
Who rated purity of intention 
on par with scientific invention. 
A man of beautiful, oft-quoted words, 
but also of action and interaction. 
Who always looked back, 
never forgetting from whence he came, 
while still soaring, like a missile, 
out into the future, 
self-propelled and precision-guided, 
towards a target we thought was out of reach. 

A humble man. 
A man who like the poet said, 
filled the unforgiving minute 
with sixty seconds worth of distance run; 
who talked with crowds but kept his virtue, 
and walked with kings but didn't lose the common touch. 

A selfless man. 
Who gave of himself until the end. 
Words of encouragement still stuck in his throat, 
as he breathed his last. 

We are poorer today for having lost him, 
but so much richer for having had him at all. 

For he was one of us, 
and he showed us it was possible. 

Salaam, APJ Abdul Kalam

For Ammachy

 

Three weeks ago, 
a great oak was felled; 
and those of us who had rested 
comfortably in its shade 
all these years, 
considered, for the first time, 
the crushing emptiness; 
the gaping vacuum 
left behind, 
that memories 
could never quite fill. 

We blinked away tears, 
and dealt with it as best we could- 
for Life Goes On. 

And yet, 
perhaps we did not see, 
that no tree ever truly dies, 
its leaves 
are never really bereaved. 
For even out of the 
scorched earth, new life 
is always birthed- and the oak, 
it still lives 
and grows in us, 
its seeds sown in us,
without our knowledge; 
its roots nourish and 
renew us, branches 
still shelter us. 

And on every new leaf,
there is a trace 
of the very same pattern 
that ran all the way up 
from the soles of weathered feet, 
to the softest, kindest face.

Right now 
A baby is being born
A child is taking a first step
saying their first word 
losing their first tooth 
A couple is taking their vows 
A little girl is proving her parents wrong 
A little boy is finding his passion 
A grandmother is being missed 
A brother is learning to forgive 
A stranger is helping another 
A smile is being smiled 
A hug is being hugged
A kind word is being said 
A meal is being shared 
Today is someone's best day ever 
All this is happening 
Right now

Here's a thought: 
Right now is all you've got.

When they pick through the rubble, of another unexplained crash, 
They won't know I was a writer, or that I listened to The Clash,
They'll gather up what remains, and dust off all the ash,
And they will identify me by my shoes. 

Everything I'd ever done, and all that was left to do,
That brilliant unfinished novel, or that masterpiece I drew,
All those battles won and lost- they wouldn't have a clue,
They will just identify me by my shoes. 

Every so often I think, of what it really means to lose,
I consider loss and longing, and what I can and cannot choose,
And how when the end comes, and it's time to clear the dues,
The only thing that will matter, is the colour of my shoes.

A 21st Century Christmas

Away in a manger, 
No crib for his bed; 
The little Lord Jesus, 
Senses danger ahead. 

Missiles in the night sky, 
Rain down where he lay; 
The rebels are gaining, but- 
He decides to stay. 

The cattle are glowing, 
From eating toxic waste; 
But the little Lord Jesus, 
No crying he makes. 

I love thee Lord Jesus, 
Look down from the sky, 
And be my protection, 
Till the firing subsides. 

Bless all the dear children, 
Orphaned and lost; 
As we fight futile battles, 
Oblivious of the cost. 

Away in a manger, 
But here in our pain; 
Our Lord Jesus came- 
And will come again. 

May the Prince of Peace be your hope this Christmas time.

An Ode to Procrastination Seizing the Moment 

One day, I promise you we'll wake up near the sea, 
We'll catch the sun together and then we'll set it free, 
For every kiss you give me, I'll give you roughly three, 
If not today, then tomorrow when? 

One day, I promise you we will smile and shout and sing, 
I will learn to appreciate even the smallest thing, 
We will wait, together, to see what the new dawn brings, 
If not today, then tomorrow when? 

One day, I promise we'll be back where we belong, 
There'll be so much right, we won't care about the wrong, 
I'll write a few stories, maybe even compose a song, 
If not today, then tomorrow when? 

One day, I promise this will all be in the past, 
We'll make the bad times vanish and the good times last, 
Every minute will be a party and every day will be a blast, 
If not today, then tomorrow when? 

One day, I promise we'll be grinning from ear to ear, 
The sky will be baby blue and the road ahead will be clear, 
We'll chase Passion with a vengeance, and stick a tongue out at Fear, 
If not today, then tomorrow when? If not today, then tomorrow when?

Men, 
they humiliate themselves on a daily basis. 
Sometimes, in little, private ways- 
like when they extend 
an arm in greeting, 
with no intention of making 
an honest connection. 
At other times, in bigger, more public ways- 
like when they raise 
an arm in aggression. 
And every once in a while, 
in unforgivable ways- 
like when their arms hang limply 
by their sides, 
and they cower 
in between comfortable folds 
of silence.

The fish that swam upside-down

There was once a fish in my grandma's tank, 

who always swam upside-down; 

For a while, if I'm completely frank, 

I thought he was trying to be a clown. 

But then with each passing week, 

I watched him struggle to stay up straight; 

I imagined him feeling like a freak, 

In his little corner, far from his mates. 

Over time, it seemed he'd accepted his lot, 

And did his best to not feel bereft; 

He would swim valiantly to the feeding pot, 

But there was often nothing left. 

Then, little fish, he grew weak and tired, 

And his little heart beat towards its end; 

But still it looped and bobbed as required, 

without a hope, or chance, or friend. 

And then one day there it lay, 

sideways in the golden sand; 

I found myself blinking tears away, 

As we scooped it in our hand. 

I sometimes think of that little fish, 

upside-down, whether by choice or circumstance; 

and when I do, I can't help but wish- 

that somewhere he's smiling and doing a dance. 

Being seen as 'different' can often hurt, 

It can be a blessing but is often a curse; 

But when I picture that fish, there in the dirt- 

I know that being alone is so much worse.

The story of the little dot

There was once a little dot. 
“I'm no ordinary dot”, it said. 
“I will not stand in one spot, 
I am going to try and get ahead.” 

Its friends called as they saw it go,
“Come, come and join us they said.” 
“What? And be an ellipsis? No,no! 
I am going it alone instead.” 

“I can't be stuck being one of three, 
because I’m no ordinary dot. 
I was born to be wiiild and freeee, 
so i'll be off now, thanks a lot.” 

Its friends were sad, but didn't say a lot, 
they'd all been there before- 
Alone though they were only little dots, 
They knew together they were so much more. 

So off they went, chasing unfinished thoughts, 
and other stories that lay in wait; 
the possibilities were oh so endless, 
they were masters of their fate. 

As for the little dot, it was in a spot, 
for little did it know, 
Alone it was just a dot; full stop. 
And there was nowhere left to go. 

...

This was how the little dot clocked, 
that things weren't quite as they seemed- 
Punctuation, like life, only really works, 
if you're one part of a team. 

So off it went, in search of friends, 
colons, commas, and question marks too! 
With so much work and so little time, 
being a solitary dot just wouldn't do. 

At last, the dot had found its spot, 
in the larger scheme of things; 
and so one story comes to an end, 
while another one begins...

A Prayer for Flight 370

Somewhere there is a plane. 
A real plane; 
not a blip on a radar, 
or a pinging black box; 
not a fleck on a satellite image, 
or a headline on loop. 
Not a conspiracy theory 
about structural integrity, 
or floating debris, 
or an unsolved mystery. 

Somewhere there is a plane. 
A real plane, 
once filled with real people; 
travelling to meet, to hug, 
to care for, comfort, or congratulate, 
to cry or to laugh with 
other real people, 
whose world has now slipped off its axis; 
people to whom northern arcs 
and southern arcs 
and ACARS mean nothing, 
and every new dawn brings 
hope and sadness, entwined together 
like conjoined twins. 

Somewhere there is a plane. 
A real plane; 
and somewhere a son, a mother, 
a friend or a brother, 
shakes with unspeakable pain. 
For them, 
no sea is too great; no news is too late. 
For them, 
our hearts must break,  
and our tears must mix with theirs, 
and our prayers 
must not cease, but instead 
form a ladder on which their grief can climb 
to a place beyond the stars; 
all the way to heaven’s gates, 
until they reach the ears of the One 
who charts all our paths, 
and orchestrates all our fates. 

Somewhere there is a plane.

Not today

One day, it might be the simplest thing 
that will feel like the hardest part; 
You won't have time to finish, 
and so you might be loath to start; 
You’ll dig up your old medals, and hold them to your heart. 
Not today, though. Not today. 

One day, you might be too scared to play 
because you’re so consumed by the score; 
The road may seem impassable, 
so you might dither by the door; 
Your body may win the odd battle, but gravity will win the war. 
Not today, though. Not today. 

One day, memories are all you'll have, 
Random, musty snapshots of the sepia kind; 
Nostalgia might go from a guilty pleasure, 
to a permanent state of mind; 
Your loan application for the future, will come back politely declined. 
Not today, though. Not today.

One day, you might wake up and realise- 
that the end seems impossibly near, 
you might try and sing your loudest, 
but like smoke rings, the words seem to disappear; 
and in that moment you might linger, just you and your fear. 
Not today, though. Not today. 
Not today, though. Not today.

For Nigel Jenkins (1949-2014)

It was with a deep sadness that I found out about the recent death of Nigel Jenkins, co-director of the Swansea Uni Creative Writing Programme which I was so fortunate to be part of. Besides being an outstanding poet and writer, Nigel was a remarkable man who will be missed by many, both in the beautiful land of Wales and far beyond. 

For me, he was one of those very rare people- someone I considered both a mentor and a friend. He was the best type of teacher- critiquing without being critical, spurring you on without wearing you down; always gently demanding excellence. He was inspirational, generous with his time, and unfailingly supportive. His passion for writing was infectious, but so too was his enthusiasm for life. 

Nigel was not one for the ivory towers, always choosing instead to be in the cafes and pubs with his students. It was there, as much as in the classroom, that you would be likely to catch glimpses of a greatness he often hid behind his baritone voice and hearty laugh. Those evenings with him always felt like they came to an end much too early, and now his untimely demise feels much the same. 

While I cannot help but mourn his passing, Nigel, along with his words, his wit and his wisdom, will always remain in a warm corner of the memory; a place the tides of time cannot quite reach, and where the sun always shines. 
Diolch i chi, Nigel, a hwyl fawr.

When the mind pines...

When the mind pines for home,
it finds it wherever it looks;
In a silent tomb, an empty room,
or within the pages of books.

When the mind pines for spring,
it finds it in whatever it sees;
a blade of grass, a swallow's wing,
or the changing colour of trees.

When the mind pines for joy,
it finds it lurking in wait;
in a place the shadows can't destroy,
far from the machinations of fate.

When the mind pines for hope,
it clings to anything it can find;
A fortune cookie, a horoscope,
any sign the stars are aligned.

When the mind pines for love,
it seeks it out far and wide;
But the heart knows, as it often does,
you start by looking inside.

In every leaf of every tree,
there is a story. 
In every wave in every sea, 
there is a story. 

In every song of every bird, 
there is a story. 
In every word that's ever heard, 
there is a story. 

In every ray of every light,
There is a story.
In every shadow in the night,
there is a story.

In every hour of every day, 
there is a story. 
In every step along the way, 
there is a story. 

Every life is a story. Every story is life.

Christmas Night

image ©Jeff Weese/Flickr /CC-BY-SA-3.0

The true king-sized bed,

is not the one on which I lay my head 

tonight,

but the one in the cold cowshed 

on Christmas night.

The true gift for both you and me,

is not the one under the tree 

tonight, 

but the one that was given free

on Christmas night. 

The true star that shines from on high,

is unlike any I can hope to buy

tonight, 

but the one that illuminated the sky 

on Christmas night. 

The true joy for all the earth,

is not in the merriment and mirth 

tonight, 

but rather in a baby's birth 

on Christmas night.