Category Archives: art

Edge of the Wood

the wood copy
Edge of the Wood (Watercolour)



Everywhere we look
Images present themselves
Like the discovery of clothes
The digital revolution has taken hold

Our new parchment caressed by cursor
Clicks us here en route to there
Images like accordions unwind
Millions become the new tens or twenties

Glut – image overload –
No choice given – just choice to turn away
Barbed-wire of all kinds getting in the road
Something new everyday to unfold

We make our way to what we want to see
To find it wasn’t what we thought it to be
Like the sea and it’s wave-roll
Against us it comes – beating us to succumb

More opinions than can be numbered
Communication wires-crossed
Spaghetti junction overload – of phrases
Headlines and cameras capture all of life

Nothing is left to the imagination
As the imagination has spewed all things seen
Images – like a gigantean archive to be sorted
We pick and choose and no longer are surprised

We can only find meaning and value
With discrimination’s guide
Taking one image at a time to behold
While still hanging some on our walls

Is it possible to come to the end of images?
Are schools of thought ever – redundant?
Do they reach an end to the road?
– Image overload

Acquired taste – might peruse the menu now
And find our seal of approval
As we separate the jigsaw pieces
To form – what means something – to view

Discriminate –
and find something worthwhile
As we take our eyes off the banal
And fix them on what is whole
Staying in control of this post-modern scroll.

Life by Paintings Measured


Life and it’s years
Measured by reflection
Recorded by another art work
Through choices of introspection

Forgotten or remembered dates
– written or not recorded dates –
signed pieces of spent time
scribbled on front or back –

Many escaped the cameras cache

Thus opening the door of surmise –
When – where – how – what – ?
Not sure and can’t remember

Marks of my own making
have gone out there
as fully-formed relatives of
heart and mind

Gone out there

There – under the sun – elsewhere
under the skies and ceilings of
other homes
Lost they are –
No tag upon the ankle
– hanging on the wall
Gone from me their first love.

I’ve lost you – children of mine

Who could you possibly
mean more to – than I…?

Time ticked by
as I remember time ticking by

Whilst I studied you – changed you –
added to your import

As I filed you – sold you –
alas – oft with regret

Gave you – itemised you –
folded you – ironed you –
cut you – framed you – forgot you
or got you back.

Gave you to – unworthy foster parents
who put you somewhere –
closed off out of sight in
chest or attic

Years gone by –
measured in spatters – washes
– and dry-brushed patterns all amok

Time recorded in
frantic marks – that scurried across
one hundred and forty pounds cold-pressed

Some stood/stand the test of time –
others – disqualified by those in a
daze of incomprehension

“I don’t know much about art…”
was the rubber stamp at the
custom’s gate of their minds

Still – can’t complain –
‘cause some will not let you go
a pillar of time you represent in
associated thought:

“My husband loved that painting of yours
I still have it – wouldn’t part with it”

Time – years – paintings gone
Out of sight – owned by others
– never to return

Many of them have worn well
Others heard man’s benediction
spoken over them:
“Time for a change –
remove her from the wall…”

What possible worth
can be found in these –
the inanimate?

And yet – thought is
art engrafted-on-paper
and thought is Still Life
revealing – there is still life

Inanimate perhaps
but what stories they tell –

Vincent did well know
His paintings oft rejected –
before he had to go

No artist can measure his years
except by Retrospectives

He alone was at the secret birth
of images coming out
delivered to the picture plane

Years measured by paintings
All unique –
Dark and sombre or all aglow

Years measured by paintings
This will have to do
to document a life

On these – man places worth
If enough will say – it should be so

Years measured by paintings
A raft of scattered years
Recorded in line and colour
and form and tone by what appears

I wonder at them all
Categorised with equality
If rejected by the Salon
It doesn’t matter to me

Years measured by paintings
I have quite a few
still wanting to leave home
to make their way to you

it’s all in the ‘s’

it’s all in the ’s’

saccharine sludge from separate sweets
slid unceremoniously sideways into the sink

simmering sausages slid eventually onto the plate
stubbing his toe – he nevertheless sat in something resembling a chair and glared suspiciously at the sausages he had set before him

sad to have no suitable side-kicks sat next to him, he subsequently sought the company of the cat…

setting it’s teeth into his sausage separating the
skin from the meat – sam the cat sat satisfied by his slightly sub-standard meal

the sausage supplier slid his hand suddenly through his shirt and checked his stomach

satisfied with his set meal he sandwiched the seven remaining sausages between salt bread saving it for sunday.

sleep suggested itself – so safely sitting suspended in his sleeping bag – he and the cat napped.

Fishing Bond


The dew rested on the grass
That semi-chill factor
Pins and needles effect
On your advancing face

Good job – these water boots!
The grass is so long

Morning – Right time to fish
Or so they say

First cast in

Birds chirping now
with intermittent grace

And yes straight away
bite on the line
Played well and landed

Catch and release
ten fish later and
it’s time for a ‘home made’

Sandwich and a slurp of soup

Back to the casting
But as the day dwindles past noon
Then past the six o’clock mark
So too dwindles the fish

Still – thirty fish can’t be bad
Let’s call it a day
Did I say: my son caught more?

I pretend envy
While secretly so glad
for his success
Best buddies in the love of God
Thank you fish
My excuse for bonding





Writing a Song


A couple of times
He couldn’t make it rhyme
So he boogied the riff
And paused – to flick his quiff

He couldn’t make it work
So considered himself ‘a jerk’
‘Call yourself a musician?’
He mused – in recognition
Of his bad hair day
And his condition – of dismay

He thought: ‘I will try later’
Sliding from his chair like an alligator
No sooner away from the deck
and the thoughts came flooding back

Try it this way – try it that
‘C’mon man – is this all you’ve got?’
Suddenly it came to mind
As he set himself to unwind:
‘I will write the song as though
I can never have another go’

And rising to his own challenge
He at last found he could manage
A song – simple but true
It came out ‘riffy’ and blue

He smiled and marvelled at
The difference the heart’s new format
– Could make – when it came to lyrics of poetry or prose
Now – written without difficulty – I suppose?



Park Wonder


It was that one part in the park…

The road widened
In fact –
it was the only stretch of good road

Canopied by the biggest trees
Creating a sense of wonderment
As the towering
guard of honour
lined the entrance to another land

To walk that trodden path
was a choice not to return

Until the teenage years
When returning was every day
Still wonderment remained
in the upward gaze that took in
the canopy of summer leaves
or winter branches

That part, that area, that corner of the park
Near that other road that ran parallel
with the home road
Out of bounds because of irrational fears
And stories no one knew the authors of

‘They’ lived over there
Over there on that other road
The unseen people
only seen in imagination-land

Walking to the start of the leafy lane
We paused as though noticing
the air had changed
Breathing-in we lifted our swords aloft
And charged
Into the valley of death –
once more into the breach –
down into indian territory –
or with Robin and John Little.

Hearty hi yo’s!
Into the leafy world
As the bright sunlight disappeared
Changing to disco strobes
Between the few gaps – above
that allowed it in

Imagination takeover –
as the script
was written afoot
no such thing as video games
to recall

all original stories
up from the depths
of the poetic mind
except for those
punctuated by throwbacks
found first on the
black and white screen per house

Story after story played out
with wooden weapons.
of the most primitively wrought kind,
but transformed in the hands
of our minds
into glitteringly powerful
of imaginary self defence

Scene after scene
Dying twice-over
sometimes thrice-
Able to climb back on
imaginary horses
and ride slumped-over
back to the camp

They say ‘those were the days’
Those were the days indeed
What are the days
of the next generation?

As they sway from side to side
Controller in hands
or their faces twitch before
the twitching screen

Here imagination already provided
Played out like a chess game

Still imagination will remain
But will it continue to fuel
good healthy exercise
in the great outdoors
of Parkland?