Breakfast at the Holiday Inn


A short curvy waitress,
whose legs open a little too casually.
Blonde hair tied in an efficient ponytail;
her true self only revealed
by the black roots at her scalp. 
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Musa Calil (Dzhalil) Tatar Poet

I took this photograph of The statue of Musa Cälil, Tartar poet and resistance fighter, which stands outside the Kremlin in Kazan. There is an honour guard standing in front of the statue in the run up to Victory day (9th May  2017). Having never heard of  Musa Calil  I decided to do a little research.

Musa Calil (1906-1944)

(Also transliterated as Musa Dzhalil)

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Longing For a Full Colour Life

Longing For a Full Colour Life

She stands alone before sink and bowl
And feels the ache within her soul
The hand that once caressed her there
Rests on the arm of favourite chair

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White Goods

vb004-044

Oh my stomach’s churning.
Rather full you see.
In fact stuffed.
Gurgle, glug, hiss.
It makes the most embarrassing sounds.

It’s her fault of course.
Fed me too much again.
All sorts. Just mixed together.
No respect for my system.
Round and round it goes like a wad of wet clothes.

She laughs
and presses herself against me
as I vibrate
across the kitchen.
Trying to shake things loose.

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Five a Day

Apple & Peach
Apple and Peach

I woke up this morning
and thought the sun was a lemon.
Well maybe a grapefruit as lemons are
well – lemon shaped.

My blackberry was on orange
and sat plum in the middle of the table.
I must get an Apple I thought
I’m not getting my five a day.

I walked through the car park.
A pot of cream in my hand.
and found a pear
sitting beneath an oak tree.

Boxing Day

Boxing Day
Frost shivers in cold misty air and drips from the trees
The sun peers round heavy grey clouds.
In their homes people lie as if dead; stuffed with turkey and booze.
We walk, my dog and I, through a suspended world.

The bark of distant guns recall memories of the Somme
and Verdun. You could hear the sound in London you know.
But this time it is only Pheasant and Partridge
to the slaughter. And they taste good.

If they’d eaten the dead in war
would the slaughter have been less senseless?

The Owl floats on velvet wings
Drifting over the frosted grass
skirting the naked grey brown spikes
Seeking small furry rustlings in deserted hedgerows

Whilst their comrades die
Two proud cocks are fighting
Hard erect their heads puffed
until one collapses and flies to the next battlefield.

If the Generals had fought like the Pheasants
Would so many men have to die