The Castle

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 Thudding wheels on cobblestones

Clatter jarring random beats

Spiteful noises without pity

Nothing pleasant here repeats

A passage way for passing through

A nameless place where never ends

No space for humour wit or slapsticks

No sight of openhearted friends

The Ball

Back and forth the ball returns

Spinning bouncing changing shape

Depending on reaction time

To bring on prospects for escape

Catch it throw it head or kick it

Make it from material mounds

Press it squash it roll it round

Each ball in transit speed astounds

This missile sphere approximate

Close range most devastating

May send you senseless out of it

Your head of steam then detonating

Pitter-Patter

Musical barometers

Forecasting heavy rain

Make a hail of drenching noises

In the hills around the plain

Thunder claps applauding

At the state of all around

As tunes get glued together

Leaving no discerning sound

Parceled up the clamorous
In confusing clatter dreams
What once was heard is now absurd
Resounding symphonies of screams

Choked

Forced to sit and wait without respite

Craving any chance to budge

Making pointless pleas that no one hears

Too pitiful and powerless to begrudge

City streets are taut and snarling

Traffic ramming chock-a-block

Seeping sluggish creeks of energy

A pent up pressure pounded lock

A Life In Theory

As though sitting catatonically

Gazing in a plastic screen

Afraid that one is missing out

On someone else's partial scene

Indifferent to ones pond like pool

A fundamental life surround

Jealous of wherever else

Eave-dropping snippets that abound

Natters ‘One on One’ most feared

Much too personal far too real

Whereas the comfort found in wireless

Gives ones imagined beau ideal

POET PARTY

When all that’s left are remnants
with nothing more to say

As moonlight fades and sun parades

The colder light of day

What then the way of writing things

As if somehow the phrases counted

Pertinence demanding relevance

Scream out on Billboards mounted

Poets sit in search of messages

In hope of something else to gain

As inner voices talking all at once

Send out rejections slips of pain

Weather Report

Squally winds are building up

Foreboding clouds distressing

Drenching trenching water falls

Bad weather needs are pressing

Windscreen wipers rubbered up

Two naked scrapers streaking

The road ahead is vision dead

A sense of hazard havoc wreaking

People hunched up seeking shelter

A hundred million landing stages

Too late the writer’s book is done

No happy ending in these pages