Skinny arms,

Freckled skin,

Still buried by the clothes I’m in,

Still looking younger than my years,

Still selectively hearing ears,

Am I changing,


Still sweet,

But not naive,

I see in shades of grey nuance,

Still loving,

But know the world sometimes does not,

Still hopeful,

In a world hope forgot,

Not a chameleon,

But those blue eyes

Have seen a lot,

Steadily growing,

Stealthily changing.


Tomorrow night, I’m performing poetry at the ‘It’s a wrap’ closing of the Egypt exhibit in the Manchester Museum while they transform the museum. I thought I’d share this poem about how the word ‘Egypt’ has fascinated me and still does…


The very word sounds mystical,


Conjuring visions of an antique land of gold buried in sand,

Where animals and gods combine,

Temples and sun align

Pyramids as old as time,


The word brings an antique glow,

To a young mind.


If I had the wings of a bird,

I’d fly to you.



Through the atmosphere,

The only limit, the stratosphere.

I can fly here, here and here,

Without fear.

Flying over international borders,

Defying the orders

of men.

Over the narrow Channel,

From Berlin to Tallin,

Swooping over continents,

Baking deserts.


Over mountains,

From Jerusalem to Bethlehem,

Over concrete barriers,

Without walls,

This earth just one great ball.

I could make my Home anywhere,

Anywhere, anywhere

Passports of any colour irrelevant,

Visas irrelevant,

Right of abode,

Right of return,


Travel free as free could ever be.

If I had the wings of a bird,

I’d fly to you,

Wherever you may be.

Reformation 500

A poem to commemorate 500 years since Martin Luther nailed his beliefs to the church door and began the Reformation.

In the beginning

Was the word,



Of corruption, 

nailed for all to see.


The weapon of the Holy See,

Threat of flame for heresy.
In the beginning

Was the word,


Printed in the common tongue,

Spread from nation to nation,

A king searching for marital bliss

Seized on this,

An answer sublime,

Where church and state combine.
In the beginning,

Was the word,

Painted over ruined images.

Broken beauty,

Ruined churches a plenty

Bloodshed, gore,


Persecution, war,

Two tribes set Europe aflame,

All in the Almighty’s name.
In the beginning,

Was the word,


A crusade turned 

Civil war in the name of faith,

Brother against brother

Over divine grace,

One word caused 


A new world, Genesis,

Reformation became a bloody revolution.

It’s ok

A poem about mental health, it’s ok not to be ok and to speak help.

It’s ok
It’s ok to feel so down,

Where nothing seems to lift you up,

Where everything you do is an utter balls up.

To rant off and off about god knows what.

It’s ok to cry,

To scream with such emotion,

Like a hysterical eruption

It shows passion.

Its ok to ask for help,

To ask, what can I do,

What can I do,

To ask you, you and you,

It’s ok to lay everything out,

bare all those demons,

 emotions, fears,

 doubts, self loathing,

Lack of hoping.

It’s ok 

to throw off the mask and say,

I’m not ok.

Isola nation 


One rocky isle in the open sea,

A safe haven for people who flee,

The desperate, hungry, refugees.

Part of a whole greater than itself.

Before the dark times came.

When there’s a loss in prosperity,

There can be a crisis of identity.

Demagogues on the prowl,

Whipping up,

Finding someone to blame.

‘Let’s get back control today, 

Let’s go it alone, 

Let’s do it our way’.

So to the ballot box they descended,

Consensus they ended,

And yes, they went their own way,

Banners flying for Independence Day.

Isola nation,

Newly born,

Viewed outsiders with scorn.


Old agreements null and void,

So new arrangements need to be made,

Going far and wide to sell our wares,

For any price, 

To anyone there.

Meanwhile back on the Isle,

Poisonous ideas were on the rise,

Who fits in and who doesn’t not,

‘Be gone, 

be gone, 

be gone with them,

Let’s make Isola great again.’


Brain drain followed,

For them not the cold of this barren rock,

One by one they left, they left,

Leaving very little, little left.

They went their own way, they did of course,

But no nation is truly an island.

Much diminished this cruel island became,

For shame, 

Isola Nation,

The clue was in the name.



Over words I sometimes stumble,

Talking about anything, nothing,

Sometimes I just talk for the sake of it.

A hilarious memory remembered,

In conversation resurrected,

Politics debated.

For those minutes you are in my power,

While I ramble,


hoping to connect,

And stay connected to you,

I ramble,


As I don’t want the silence of being alone.