the rain that soaks

Ma gurd it is wet out there. The 

rain pelts down on the conservatory 

roof and I have to venture out

to get jabbed. It is good that I 

unblocked the drainpipe during 

the week just gone, the soaking

I received a mere splash compared 

With what would be were I to try it now.


suburban living

suburban living. sitting in traffic, timing your tedious journey to the valuable minute, squeezing every last second out of the trip. a five minute result. five precious minutes out of the ordinary. tired in no time, life ticks away.

Lockdown 2 poems


A random spread, 

of words plucked, 

from thin air, 

high altitude argument,  

badinage bad boys

Lockdown 2 poems

end of day

Nightfall. A day quickly over. Curtains closed on a cold and inhospitable world.

poems poetry

The tea is mine

The tea is mine. There is no room for unfounded spurious claims of ownership. Time darkens, purposeful brew. The fire flickers, roars, shouting at the hand that feeds. My attention is grabbed, enlightened. Background noises comfort. There is peace.

57 Varieties poems poetry

leaves me alone

Leaves leave my lawn alone
Grass killer compost fodder
Unwanted dead wind drift

57 Varieties poetry winter series

Waiting for spring

deep hibernation

breath freezes outside blanket

slow rhythmic breathing

wondering whether 

cup of tea will make itself

stare into darkness

57 Varieties poetry

A tired night of TV

A tired night of TV, staring

A theme, that keeps repeating

Nothing on, worth watching

Screen time too long, fatiguing.

57 Varieties poetry

words spill slowly

Surrounded by books I drown in words.

I picture myself, alone, writing by the light of a single candle. Words spill slowly onto the page, my mind adjusting its flow to the tempo of the pen. These words seem more considered than anything that spits out at the speed of hands at a keyboard. Dancing fingers outpace thought.

Outside in the darkness a threatening wind beats invisible fists against the window. My candle flickers, a retreat into an obscure past. I am buried in the page, sucked in by words randomly thrown down. How they get there is my story.

One hundred books are removed. Ten million once read words unwanted. Ten million flourishes unemotionally scattered into the night. The candle dies but a new dawn arrives.

57 Varieties poems poetry

In the wind beaten garden

In the wind beaten garden, birds hide, branches fall and words scatter. Collars pulled tight on bent head daffodils.

Then the rain; incessant bird bath fill, deafening inside the conservatory.

Later skies lighten, snow is promised. Wind drops and peace descends.

57 Varieties poems poetry

Homeward bound I am

Homeward bound I am, fleeing city madness and the battle against the office worker tide

Homeward bound I am, to recover from an opulent week of self indulgent excess

Homeward bound I am, to a smile and a kiss and a nice cup of tea

Homeward bound I am,

Homeward bound I am.



The world in which we live is blowing up
Brexit looms
May has failed spectacularly
And my late train, with broken toilet
Continues to evacuate itself
Returning every few minutes
Behind it’s locked facade
To a cycle of self expurgation
Oblivious to all around it
Who must seek elsewhere to find relief
And yet somehow it seems
To provide a commentary
Appropriate to this moment in history

By Bob Sleigh

poetry thoughts

Thoughts on poetry

Just come back from Anne’s concert band Christmas Concert where the guests were expected to form a choir. I was ok with this even if it came as a bit of a surprise. We sang some ABBA medleys. I noted two things.

Firstly ABBA’s lead singers were girls who could sing higher notes than I can. Secondly as I stood there staring at the lyrics I realised how sad some of the songs were. ABBA produced some fantastic songs written in the main by the two guys in the band and I pictured in my mind the girls seeing new songs that would become huge hits for the first time and wondering what they thought of them.

This made me think of the whole subject of poetry. That’s what these songs are. Poems written to a tune (or the other way around). A couple of weeks ago Anne and I went to a “Classics with Coffee” morning at the Blue Room in the Lawns. We had a pleasant morning listening to a pianist and, separately, a poet. It struck me at the time that listening to others read out their own poetry doesn’t do it for me. I have to be able to sit there staring at the words on the page, just like I did this morning with the ABBA songs. Now this isn’t to say that I wouldn’t sit there listening to a poet I liked read out their own material but it would definitely be enhanced if I had the words there in front of me.

That is all.

poems poetry

twilight time

Not much light left in the day.
Systems entering night mode.
Hibernation acceptable strategy.
Conservation of energy.


I sit here jivin

I sit here jivin’ in chair
my fave sounds
the world is in front of me,
go where I please
cap sits comfortably
autumn falls outside

I am alone the girls have gone out
walked to town for a celebrity
followed by gin and tonic
float the boat and down your throat

occasionally I line up the music
don’t leave that to chance

volume increases

political classes commit suicide
on everyone’s behalf
taking us with them
guitar solo kicks in with drum support

next morning it rains
breakfast over, back in chair
leaves litter no lawn left
quiet house