Tuesday, 10 December 2013


A single sunflower
in the absence of sun

windswept rays
of a swaying refugee

capturing bliss
like a beaming nun

gripping her gilded
bible with glee;

I have no way
of knowing the real you

or getting closer
than the last few feet

each time I see
your face, it’s true

though now it’s so rare
that we ever meet;

once, all was light
and they floated to me

all the shivering ladies
and goose bump breasts

and afterwards, we
would all seem free

of life’s little trials
and worthless tests;

the cold has arrived
here much too early

and the days are begging
for scraps of light

I’m still reaching, but
it’s always nearly

and our flimsy passion
will never ignite.

Monday, 4 November 2013


I wrote myself out of the dark
using buoyant words from my youth,
then simple sound of a dog bark
halting my lonely search for truth.

Sunshine in early October,
waiting for the brittle to fall;
time before Christmas spent sober;
undressing trees suddenly tall.

Your love remains well out of reach
- all the barriers we cannot see;
breakwaters on the tidal beach
try to stop the land breaking free.

It seemed much easier back then
to surf the vulgar flow of words;
kids poked fun at the smelly men
sleeping streets of the shitting birds.

Now our own teeth are falling out
and pages of the book are blurred;
inside, the silent scream and shout
as certain death is just deferred.

I walked myself out of the dark
- winter morning at last got light,
kept going beyond the prim park
- tousled wilderness just felt right.

York, click image to grow

Tuesday, 1 October 2013

Her Purest Trick

I watch trembling
leaf shadows on the wall
and feel that I can cope
with winter and the dark

if the sun still
bounds along the hall
like golden retrievers
in the frosty park

astounding light
climbs the wooden door
and creeps across
the kitchen table

like soothing waves
licking the shore,
always moving,
never stable;

yet her gentle knock
never seems to come,
I know the bell
is no longer working

the sound of love
is a distant drum,
rarely seen, though
it might be lurking

there is some comfort
in this draughty light
even when the clouds
are damp and thick

she can still surprise
in soft dreams at night,
quivering beauty –
her purest trick.

Friday, 13 September 2013


I imagined you
would save me
in the lifeboat
of your arms

and take me
to your cosy
little cottage
of fire and shells,

we could lie
in every morning
the alarms

and never see
the workers
as they drive
to prison cells.

I knew that
you would see
beyond my shabby
outer self

and tears came
like boulders -
the harbour wall

it had seemed
that we
were just left
on the shelf,

that nothing
could ever be

We listened
to the sea,
lying naked
by the flame

and I was happy
to drown in

we turned
our two-backed
beast, on fortune
and fame

their world
was nothing, but

Staithes, Yorkshire - click image to grow

Sunday, 5 May 2013


The pot-holed, tarmac road
disappeared like a snake
reluctant to spit its
precious venom of death

I looked ahead to the small
hills beyond the lake
and saw they were a woman,
and her morning breath

was in the lush valley
of my stubborn dream,
and I realised our love
had lasted many years

we were often scared it
might vanish like steam
- a ghost train puffing
up the incline of tears.

There was never a card
on that February day;
you kept passion secret
like a country unknown

and always I walked
the invisible way
beyond manicured trees
and pathways of stone;

there was something
startling around the bend,
a happy surprise past
the blackthorn bush

the road just went on
- there wasn’t an end
to the bliss still thriving
in a timeless hush.

Thursday, 14 March 2013


Why does a poet
always fall in love ?

Finding expression
in words, not flesh

rolling sad eyes
to the sky above

eternal emotions
ancient, and fresh.

Why does a poet
always fall in love ?

With a fragrant lady
on the bus, or beach

and then to lose
the soaring dove

to stretch an arm
and overreach.

Why does a poet
always fall in love ?

Instead of working hard
like normal folk

some would like
to give a shove

into the real world
beyond a joke.

Why does a poet
always fall in love ?

When others are happy
to fight a war

refusing armour
or protective glove

begging his muse
for a little bit more.

Why does a poet
always fall in love ?

Not really knowing
the reasons why

dreaming soft breasts
dangling above

and fleshy buttocks,
supple thigh.

About Me

My photo
I'm a poet based in Yorkshire, England, sharing a home with a Tibetan Terrier called Bertie who has little in common with the terrier breed, but does support a free Tibet ! (Words & Images Copyright: Maverick Heart, unless otherwise stated).