I Am Untouchable

Looking at my hands, fingers,

wondering at all the things

that linger there. These hands

have touched so much,

held on and let go, and

now I know that they may hold

the end of those I love.

So I will pray, though not to God.

My hands will meet

just as they should,

in supplication to the greater

good, for hands together touch

each other and no other.

Touching me untouches you.

leaves you isolated, inviolate,

and safe. Keep it that way.

Don’t touch me now, don’t

ask for trouble. Keep your

hands to yourself.

I am untouchable.

This Old Man

This old man, he played on

until all his mind had gone.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

where’s the dog and bone,

send him to the old folks home.

In her pearls, his old girl

watched him as he lost this world.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

on the dog and bone,

asking for some care at home.

All alone, on her own

his old girl went daft also.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

get the dog and bone,

take her to a different home.

On their own, separate zones,

each went down the slippery slope.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

lost the dog and bone,

each one died but did not know.

This old pair, past all cares,

burned and scattered, no one there.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

buried dog and bone,

everybody dies alone.

Writing Me Up

This blog was just eponymous

which made it SEO anonymous

so now it’s more synonymous

with something slightly fabulous

(or, maybe, less ridiculous)

and so it would be marvellous

if you would like to follow us.


A poem celebrating the change of blog name to Writing Me Up.

I felt this was a more appropriate name as it reflected the aims of the blog: the need to write up the words that come to me; the way that writing lifts me up; and how writing rightens up my mind, which can wander into dark corners if it isn’t given something constuctive and creative to do.

So – welcome to my new old blog. Hope you like it.

The Sickening

Closer comes the sickening,

the withering, the reckoning.

Closer, now, and closer still.

It always has, and always will,

be there for you, to scare for you

and bare for you your bones.

A pox is on the world today,

perhaps a curse, as some would say.

No, no, it’s just a new disease

that spreads and roams with deadly ease

to mums and dads, and older lads

and older ladies too.

The peril of the world today

is that we’re all six steps away

from every other, everywhere

from over here to over there,

and now we’re all ascloseasthis,

our sickness spreads without a kiss.

It only takes a sneeze or cough

to see your friends and neighbours off,

so stay at home and wait it out,

there is no need to run about,

just save yourself and watch the fun.

Something wicked this way comes.

I Almost Understand

Standing on a footbridge.

The ring road below it, traffic from out of

town streaming along the dual carriageway

from somewhere to somewhere else. In the pointless

morning, cars crawl slowly or stop beneath the bridge,

the rush hour standstill. People see me standing there,

alone. They look up and wonder why I’m there.

When I look at them, they all just look away.

Hours later, at the end of the day, after sunset, it’s different.

When I look at them now, under the street lights,

they look back, and keep looking as they pass beneath me,

swivelling round in their seats to keep me in view,

the solitary figure standing at the edge of the bridge.

I can tell what they’re thinking.

I can smell the diesel stink and hear the rolling roar.

I can almost feel the metal weight of them, the cars

and trucks and buses and vans, speeding along

on the cold, hard, unmoving black macadam

all those unforgiving, heartless feet below.

It’s when I look down that I get it.

Alone, in the dark, on the bridge,

I almost see why people do it.

I almost understand.

A Small Act Of Vengeance

The father arrives.

He pulls up on the road and he beeps the horn

and he waits. Perhaps he beeps again.

But he always waits.

The boys are never ready. He waits five, ten,

sometimes more minutes, but he always

has to wait. When the door of the house opens

the boys run down to the car, hurrying,

eager to see him. They have been waiting, too.

The couple parted some years ago. Who knows

who left who, or why anyone should care?

She stayed in the house, the family home,

and he didn’t. He has a new life now,

a new woman, and a new place to live.

The mother has a new man, too, someone

lumpen and sullen and dull. She found

him in town after running around

for a while dressed in desperate fashion.

From the window, she sometimes looks as the

man and his boys drive away.

But only sometimes.

The new man never looks, or speaks,

or smiles. The father drives too quickly,

coming and going in repentant haste

on this small road, where his

small boys live their contained lives.

He comes, and he waits.

Perhaps he is already annoyed

before he even gets here by this

small act of vengeance.