Poems

Poem

He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.
He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.
His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.

Poem

His name is called and there's a pause

just long enough to halt a war

tame timber wolves and trim their claws

hide diamonds in a secret drawer

Poem

A queen in a palace, slumped on a throne,
Surrounded by servants but all alone.
Heavy with handshakes, bunches of flowers,
jewels, crowns, grinning for hours.

Poem

All you see is outside me: my painted smile,
the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes.
A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me

Poem

I’ve got the 
Teach-them-in-the-morning-
Playground-duty-
Teach-them-in-the-afternoon blues.
My head’s like a drum;
My feet, cold and sore.
I’m feeling so glum;