I don't know where this poem came from but probably embedded in my subconscious on a walk when I couldn't take a dying tree home so a poem is homage to the sadness of dying trees but the wonder of nature to rise up and live again.   Ghost Leaves and Peat Frost making frosted edges frosted veins Making ghost leaves Freezy cold water making arsicles of us washing our bums in the stream in winter Birch bark shed like a silvery snake leaves slivery Peat dry and soft...

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I do a job which consists of helping people, tasking for superiors, and general dogsbody to ease their stress when what I need is all of that, those, this? Here's a poem I read at Survivors one night....and keep going back to!! Swing Low Sweet Iscariot The pendulum that’s been swinging above us Has neared the time of decision And come to cut off our heads It’s sliced at our necks It’s scalped us slow Swung us high Swung us low Jargon junta munchers Wafting Business...

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Hair all over the place
Like my life

Face greased with humidity
Like my slippery slope
Brain like porridge
Slipping into insanity

So I brush up on the platform,
blot on the tube,
hope brain will come together

Now I look like I’m in charge, a hair-brained schemer

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Singalong if you know the song....

www.youtube.com/watch?v=ptMgZI6O8gg

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My dear friend Anita (she of T'Anita in Perpetua/ar thar cummin art t'neet Anita? fame - a tribute from me to her stamina) would not be ignored when she was in the audience of Question Time 20/6/13 when she challenged Boris the Mare sorry Mayor re extortionate renting in London.  He bumbled, she rumbled , he crumbled, she humbled him and I was so proud, she was loud but how else can we be heard!  STARS Of which we all are S.T.A.R plural I wink back At the twinkling...

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I wrote 'Sea ‘scape Shuttle' whilst working in a Council office and there was such a lot of rattling and prattling going on from workers het up about meetings etc. that I covered my ears thinking what am I doing here (again) and these words just came into my head. Years after the event, I realise I have always tried to hide so that I don’t have to prove I am worth an existence. Sea ‘scape Shuttle I wish I’d been born at the bottom of the sea Nobody there to...

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It’s difficult to encapsulate the past few months save in antiphonies: near disasters with real ones, brightly countered by new dawns and some sparkling paintwork. The most grievous loss from which it’s difficult to recover poise from is the death on 18th December last of Xochitl Tuck, our Events organizer from the early days, who presided over the Poetry Café and Tottenham Chances so unflinchingly that when she didn’t turn up on the12th December, the authorities were...

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