Poems

Poem

Tell me, Mama,
Where does the sun come from
in the morning?

Where does it go to
when it reaches the edge of the field?

Poem

'On buses and trains you wouldn't believe
The crazy things that passengers leave:

A pair of crutches, I kid you not,
Hot-waterbottle, full but no longer hot

Poem

I am the evil Slithermonchowchuck,
I am afraid of no one (well almost no one).
I munch on the marbles of lost lunatics,
I nibble on the toes of Tyrannosaurus 

Poem

A stranger called this morning
Dressed all in black and grey
Put every sound into a bag
And carried them away

Poem

This is the city:
buildings, buses, trains and cars
concrete, metal, bricks and glass
houses, lights and cinemas
shops and offices and bars
this is where the people are.

Poem

The playground is built on top of a graveyard.

Press your ear to the tarmac and you'll hear the undead

scratching on their coffin lids.

 

Poem

Today I read a bus stop
and then I read a van,
a poster and three carrier bags,
some shop signs and a man
who had a crazy T-shirt on.

Poem

Furrows unfurl,
Carved by the plough – Curl, fold, fall back:
The skin peels away.

Poem

A poem is not an Ant
but it can be quite short.
A poem is not a Banana
but there may be something under its skin.
A poem is not a Coat

Poem

In the beginning was the word
and the word is ours:

the names of places,
the names of flowers,
the name of names,
words are ours.

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