the ruins of the future // spoken word poetry

I’ve always loved poetry as a medium, always felt that somehow the structure and rhythm of it helps me feel the impact of the meaning of the words more deeply. Maybe that’s why there is so much poetry in the Bible. This year I’ve enjoyed trying out the added layer of doing poetry as spoken word. It’s obviously homemade, but here’s my attempt at capturing a few thoughts about legacy:

Nothing Could Be More Important

Our family recently returned from a holiday in the country where we had very little internet access and most of the traffic was cows. The time to read and think and enjoy the countryside without distractions was refreshing, reminding me again that sometimes the best way to keep going strong is to stop for a little while…

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A Gentleman

To say “He’s a gentleman”
Means he is kind
A man who is gentle with others

But the title’s been used
In ways far less sublime:
Of a man who has power and fortune

And even applied
(Most contrary of all)
To men who watch ladies undress

For oppression and shame
Won’t use their own name,
But wrap up in titles of virtue

My Favourite Graveyard

One of my favourite places near our house is a little graveyard up the hill behind our village. Yes, I know how odd that sounds. I don’t even have relatives there; I know nothing about the people buried in that small patch of ground except what is written on their monuments and of course that they used to live where I live and breathe the same air and somebody cared enough about them to put up a stone in their honour. 

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INSIDE // spoken word poetry // lockdown 2020

I was challenged by a young man recently to write a poem about the current situation. I love the medium of spoken word poetry, so I decided to take this opportunity to give it a try. Here’s the result (The reason it looks homemade is because it is homemade):

A Kiss In My Hand

“Daddy,
Put a kiss in my hand,
And while you’re away I can hold it
Up to my cheek
And be happy
Knowing that you really love me”

“Daddy,
Here’s a kiss in your hand,
And while you’re away you can hold it
Up to your cheek
And I’ll give you
My love from a long way away”


My daughter is seven, but her love is much bigger than her size would suggest. She said this (ok, I’ve paraphrased) before I left home for a week, and here I am sitting on the other side of an ocean with my hand on my face and no one knows why.

In Appreciation Of Grey

It’s a synonym for uncertainty, for ageing, and depression. It’s no wonder that it never gets claimed as a favourite colour. It is camouflage for cars and clothes, blending in with crowds and concrete, proclaiming no happiness but not heavy enough for proper mourning, either. It’s not a storm, but still blocks the sun. It’s grey.

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