Three Women’s Woes Poem

Her sky-high heels, tell tale marks

upon my furnished floor boards,

the deep crimson lipstick shade

grated where my head lays to

slumber, the lonely hair slide traveled, trapped

deep amidst my leather recliner.

Unfaithful, Unworthy, Unkind.


Countless business excursions,

blank expressions, empty conversing,

tired, distant, love lost that

 past burned passionately. All

we wish for, the dream, dissolved,

dashed. Screaming, yearning for his attentive

glance, the light faded internally.


Veil flowing comfortably down my back,

resting lightly upon thee intricate white dress,

Today I shall be Mrs.

But wait, every detail but one

obeyed, falling to my knees, mud clung to

virgin white, face frozen.

He’s not coming.


A Poem about my Campus

To my North,

gusts of gales rousing my hair to life,

sun setting as I run in a continuous loop,

face striped in purple paint.


To my East,

dim light flickering from the outside,

rows of authors waiting patiently

to be opened, discovered.


To my South,

a place of laughter, animated chatter and

best memories over potatoes in

any imaginable form.


To my West,

the fountain stands proud, the heart of campus,

not to be caught on the wrong side

in the wild wind.

Almost There

Rolling hills and abandoned mills,

derelict, decrepit buildings,

rain racing down the unwashed windows,

Almost there.


Kindles glaring at their readers,

trees dancing and waving in the wind,

cars wizzing past, headlights a blur,

Almost there.


A dark blanket fast approaching,

children called in for tea time,

decorated grave stones, majestic church squires,

clock strikes nine – almost there. 

God’s Own Country Poem

Is summat up wi thissen?

Can tha get meh?

Al tell ya summat fo’ nowt

you folk reckon I chelp nonsense.


Ah’m fair stalled of chunterin’

baht how i say coit or coke or no.

fratchin’ baht teacake, or

snicket or brew


Doesn’t tha know I’m from

God’s Own Country? Stop Gawpin’ n’ faffin’

when I ‘appen t’say a word

not t’taste of thissen


Chuffin’ eck lass

ah’ll go t’foot of ahr stairs,

when tha hears another lass

talkin’ language of a yorkshireman.

Reverse the Night

This is a poem I wrote recently about nightclubs. Hope you enjoy it!

Waking up, reverse the night.

martini, mojito, margarita,

turned to tequila shots,

sticky dancing, an expression,

suction stilettos, new meaning.


Reverse 2am. The track colliding

with drama, Djs mixing, rippling

at one with beats. Hip Hop moves

in a frenzy of psychedelic colours

and abstract shapes.


Reverse 12- midnight.

Gaggles of girls,

working as a team. Bump together

in complete unison to mainstream

motivational music.


Reverse 11 o’clock.

Back in the cold, queuing with your troop,

mingling with the herd, 

bouncers built like army tanks

refusing even the sweetest underage entry


Now at the start of the night.