The Dairy

A poem about a very beautiful woman called Claudia who's powerful persona and laughter use to roll around us like a midnight thunder.

Two haiku poems , TEAR DROP shows how a Tsunami can start from the slightest ripple. REVOLTING, another haiku poem on how if you distract someone with something revolting it can avert a revolution ie Rome's Colosseum or today's violent multimedia sedate the sapiens savagery and let the status quo grow .

A musing about the Star Trek scientists who make our intergalactic fate sound like a subway ride through a station Stargate .

Being at sea aboard huge luxury vessels is very glamorous. As a skipper-come-captain, it is easy to be wined and dined each evening by billionaires with the finest foods and drinks. The only drawback is that you steadily become an old soak. I worked alongside many captains who became just that. Thinking back to a collision at night with JJ, the skipper, and a refugee boat – he had gotten drunk with a stewardess and gone to bed, leaving the vessel on autopilot. The similarities to the Titanic are on a much smaller scale but just as deadly. Doing double dog watch shifts doesn't help. Instead of 4 hours, you do 8, covering for someone or even the milk shift when you start at midnight and sometimes finish six hours later. Dozing off is so easy if the autopilot's on. Many of our crew used to come on the milk shift smelling of booze – sea watches disorientate you. I've seen quite a few old sailors having a beer for breakfast as they come off the first watch at 4 am.

Buying power tools at the hardware store? you truly may as well arm yourself with a weapon of war and become yet another one of the do it yourself casualty score , around the world figures run into the hundreds of thousands the body counts are much higher than in most actual modern theatres of war .

When you reach fifty, plus tax, and still see yourself as a sexy silver fox with those ash-gray locks, you might want to forget about the fifty shades of grey, and perhaps put your old sex pistol away.

A poem about an old rag and bone man who started out with just a horse and cart then after a life of skinflinting strife became very rich but even after acquiring great wealth he still retained his beggar man roots and rhetoric.

Setting off on a world tour in the late seventies was nothing like it is today there were no mobile phones or multimedia just the odd phone box for calls your thumb and forefinger were used for hitchhiking thousands of miles around the globe taking years and years almost a decade to the point where many of us became wonderless with our own wanderlust but we did become quite skilled in the art of conversation due to spending so much time speaking with strangers back when you had the safety of being completely anonymous due to not having any mobiles or multmedia where as now the new wage travellers or tech tramps are so guarded due to the sapiens surveillance of God Google and the silicone starzi Siri .

Greta has an almost impossible sales pitch she's to demand that the incredibly rich dumped that expensive pieces of kitsch , they fly to the cop out climate meetings in their lear jets and show not the slightest hesitation of any regrets, her gargantuan glitch is to try to move these people towards the green dream of a beggars itch, but these dinosaurs who block destiny's drawbridge are mega rich and have no intention of surrendering any of their Kardashian kitsch. To quote Churchill sardonically, , "Never was so much owed by so many to so few".

A tune for my godson Todd who's five years old it was inspired by listening to him talking about his modern dance class which involves quite a lot of acrobatics including parkouring from the kitchen table onto the floor then spinning round on his back hissing loudly like a fried egg or an angry snake.

Simmer the sapien inside a tin can especially in a stop start traffic jam and they quickly revert back to primitive man and that includes pacifists and your little old gran .

A poem written about that green eyed monster of sin the secret schadenfreude that we all keep hidden away within , usually it's only seen in young children as they rival for survival craving their parents attention a lowly leftover from our anthropological ascension , however this instinct can also be witnessed later in our lives when the males begins to assert their dominance at the procreation stage of life .

A poem for Lily who mother is always in a constant Spring clean dusting and polishing until everything in the house begins to gleam, then again she could be addicted to the smell of Mr sheen or has she been drinking far too much caffeine, perhaps it's something to do with the covid vaccine that's turned her into this dopamine drama queen, what about the lack of vitamin b12 is she missing the red meat protein she's never quite been the same since she read the vegan magazine, oh for heaven's sake someone please intervene and turn off this terrifying domestic terrain cleaning machine .

In the swinging sixties a sexpionage spy scandal took place called the Profumo Affaire unfortunately two of its players were amateurs and didn't know what the rules of their spy games were ; one was sacrificed as a scapegoat and the other Christine Keeler lived life under a long dark cloud until she died and all because they were enlisted by MI5 into taking part in a Russian honey trap for Queen and country which went dramatically wrong ; Dr Steven Ward a brilliant osteopath and gifted portrait artist was demonised and double crossed to the point where he took his own life with an overdose of sleeping tablets the poison chalice , Baron Profumo who was the cause of it all retired in disgrace cleaning toilets and working for a charity where he was eventually awarded an OBE to pin next to the MBE and bronze star that he'd won as a military hero in the war . A wax statue still stands of Steven Ward in the house of horrors at Madame Tussauds a terribly cruel homage to say he was only doing what the British secret service ask or doubtless ordered him to do . The scandal also brought an Iron Curtain crashing down on the conservative government of Harold Macmillan .

Male prowess in the 1970s and 1980s of British northern towns usually ment you had to attempt to drink a liquid suicide to verify your masculine side to your alcoholic man tribe .

A little poem I wrote about our Neo Omnipresence that seems almost God like in its power and control , the all seeing eye that invisible entity watching over everything we say and do.

A short poem written about the money monsters in the city of London they feed their need and greed down on London's squire mile all the while with a wry smirk and smile hence why this rapacious reptile is called Mr mercantile .

The green-eyed monster of sin, that schadenfreude which we keep hidden away so deep within, its usually only seen in children as they exert their will to win ; the lowly leftover instinct of our anthropic ascension. However, this terrible traite can also be witnessed later in our lives when males begin to assert and dominate as the sexual stage arrives and our species needs to procreate .

A verse dedicated to Katy at the reception desk, who entices every man with a glimpse of paradise and a promised, only then to revel in glee as they step into her quagmire of quicksand.

Living our lives as nocturnal belfry bats fuelled by booze and nose gay narcotics we'd flutter back at dawn after sharing shrink spiel and serotonin Smarties at all night high octane piss and powder parties in H-gate is there any wonder that we all became navy blue neurotics suffering from nervous breakdowns and depression.