Copse corpse 

​Ripped from its roots and soil bed,

Lifeless, its once vibrant needles now dead.
After twenty slow years growing in the ground,
The Norwegian spruce corpse is sold for forty pound.
Manhandled and lugged over one shoulder,
Its once rich green pine begins to falter.

Impaled on a cold metal stand, it’s placed by the fire,
The fireplace that will in January become its pyre.
Spread apart, its rich leaves flay
It begins to shrivel as it starts to decay.
Defiled in death, its limbs are left to drop,
As its decorated with a heavy gold star on top.

It is forced to bow its boughs under the weight,
As baubles and ornaments help it dissipate.
Stringed up, the marvel soon fades
As come January, its owner returns wielding blades.
The corpse of the once mighty tree is not returned to earth,
But now takes pride of place inside a hearth.

Those decades of growth go up in flames,
As greedy humans take their claims.
A tree is not just for Christmas, a festive fad,
It’s a living thing that makes our air less bad.
Don’t wipe out nature for just one day,
Buy fake – no-one will know anyway.


Cry for Help

​Her screams ricochet, bursting brightly in her head,

As all hope departs, and the gaps fill with dread.
Her cries are muted, her pain unseen
As her paper facade breaks from behind a white screen.

Broken vowels litter and spurt on the page,
Detailing openly her envy and rage.
But those heartwrenching words are never looked at and read,
So the anguish and hurt turn inward instead.

The carefully calligraphed words pierce through her skin,
Etching roughly on her soul her cardinal sins.
But this tablet of terror or scroll of self-hate
Is only opened when it’s nearly too late.

Soon after the author who penned this very sad tale,
Bemoans her life in a primal scream or wail.
She reaches to the cabinet for her self-inflicted plight,
Hoping that tomorrow everything will be alright.

As she sips on her gin, the vapour burns her throat,
As she downs a shot for every smug word or gloat.
She watches her dreams pour away with each measure,
Forgetting with each drop when life gave her pleasure.


Christmas Grief

​The season of insincerity dawns,

As materialism and self-interest spawns
In soulless supermarket aisles
As sad souls neck back vials
Of proof rum
Slumped, as glum
They take to the streets
To marvel at the fleets
Of fakery, spouting a message of hope
While others in the gutter can barely cope.
With frost-bitten fingers they look at the crowds
Weary and complaining, wrapped in woolen shrouds.

Overwhelmed with the pressure of buying the perfect gift
Conscious of the consequences, of the potential rift.
We’ll whine as we mope with a bottle of wine,
Failing to spot the desolate whose life’s on the line.
The message of goodwill to you and your kin
Is soon forgotten as loved ones pile in
For a christmas feast and night of excess
With nothing but the finest and the very best.

So consumed by our consumerism, we can’t open our eyes and see
The desperate folk sheltering under a leaf-less tree.
As we peel off the paper for another unwanted parcel,
Remember to them, your ‘hovel’ is a castle.
How they’d long to be in your shoes just for one day,
Away from the bitter cold, not abandoned like a stray.
So this Christmas, spare a thought for the lonely,
The frail and homeless, as you curry favour with a crony.
They need our attention, our love and our care
Because the only thing they’ll receive is a judgemental stare.
For once treat them like one of the three kings,
So for one day they can forget how bitter the winter night stings 

Despicable Me

​ Despicable Me,

How I long to be free
From my suffocating chains,
That tighten and squeeze till no kindness remains.

I’m despicable and vile,
Full of envy and bile,
A second rate citizen, an oxygen stealing thief
Who swallows up love and breathes out grief.

I’m a lowlife delinquent with a black tainted heart,
Who takes pleasure in pulling you apart.
I am unskilled, a worker with no work
Of no assumed talent, attribute or worth. 


A barricade of prams of parents before block my path,
As vengeous and hormonal, they unleash their wrath.
Perfectly preened they cast their eye,
Determined and prepped to make me cry.

In gangs of two, three and four,
In my tatty carrycot they abruptly pore.
“You’re swaddling her wrong”, “no dummy after  12 weeks”
“By six months you need to stop those morning sleeps”.

A barrage of advice hits me smack in the face,
As they leave me feeling an utter disgrace.
Doubts envelop and squeeze me tight,
As a lack of confidence crushes with all its might.

I wish I could be like them, the perfect mum,
Not plagued by despair that leaves me numb.
I wish I could keep calm and keep my cool,
To fight back the tears as she screams and bawls.

As angry eyes dart and look on at her fit of rage,
I yearn to have a child like theirs, so meek and sage.
But like me, she stands from the crowd,
In a world where difference is not allowed.

A rule breaker, she won’t sit or do as you say,
However hard you discipline, bribe or pay.
An individual, she listens only to herself,
Irrespective of the danger or risk to her health.

I may be a rubbish parent under their judgemental glare,
But however bad I am, at least I’m there.
I may be following this rule book all wrong,
Forgetting every lyric to every nursery song.

I may not be the parenting example,
But my love for her is more than ample.
While I may fail, I will keep on trying
to ignore your judgement and incessant prying.

I know my child is better than your held view,
And her welfare doesn’t need to involve you.
I don’t need your input, your say or piece.
No matter if she’s your granddaughter, neighbour or niece.