One of my favourites, which was recently published in North West Words magazine. 
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Tag: Baby
Lunchtime lyric
The tiny meal for tiny hands
It seems so easy to understand.
The plate is never finished, it’s true
But that has never bothered you.
The Prince sleeps
As Shakespeare said: ‘what dreams may come’?
Lying spreadeagled under the moon
no tension there but an occasional moan,
Morning light will come too soon.
Resting on his laurels now
The leaves of which will flavour
His dream meals of tomorrow,
And the joys he has yet to savour.
And his throne will hide his tired eyes
Imperiously drained,
He dreams not yet of how far he’ll rise,
The future cannot be explained
So slumber on, little prince,
With carefree snores and whines
What dreams may come, no one can tell,
But tonight your dreams are your design.
A poem in praise of breastfeeding
Daddy’s sinking underGlorious weight
It is a grand mix
of all the energy – butter, salt
And sugars we could find and fix
New cells growing, plant fibers,
cereals and breads giving nutrition and
Proteins from fishes
Oils too for those shiny eyes
Strengthen the sight we need to see – Vitamin D – we always need
More and more –
more and more carrots for cold climate kids
Sunlight for sons born too soon
Salts and fats all included in the pack
The necessary niceties of night
The darkness is never so black
Mama is ready at the drop – of a hat, not a spoon
And good – “it’s ready
Soon as I can, wash my hands
Ok let’s go hand him here
Daddy you go back, to sleep
I’ve got this I’ll keep him growing
He’s a growing boy”
Glorious weight, full of joy
(And milk of course)
Sunday Scribble – ‘A portrait of my Son as a Dinosaur’
‘A portrait of my Son as a Dinosaur’
Spielberg had never seen my kid
So how did he know
that the T-Rex had his beady little eye?
Its tiny arms flailing wildly,
grabbing hold of nothing
Is my son a T-Rex?
Not at all.
he’s much closer to a velociraptor
In size, if not in speed.
And that nasal scream,
the angry red skin,
and the kicking feet,
weapons of mass destruction
velociraptor it is.
But that’s good, they’re the smart ones.
Watch out Spielberg – he’s coming for you.
The First Week
I wanted to write about my kid
But he’s so small
He’d fit in a lady’s handbag
And that’s not all
You could probably add water
And maybe a laptop too
That handbag could be carried
Without too much ado
But with him comes baggage,
Pram, cribs and bath
And a wardrobe the size
Of Canary bloody Wharf
The heating is going by
Night and by day
As to the stench of the nappies
I really can’t say
When I lost my sense
Of smell, it was near
To 5am Sunday,
I was nearly in tears
They say your life changes, and
you don’t know how much
That bringer of baggage
Your heart he will touch
He’s as cute as can be, while
He sleeps all day long,
And when he’s bawling his lungs out,
He’ll calm with a song
I wanted to write about
my new kid and me
I guess I have to end
With a rhyme for free.
