Bajo un sol intenso (poem)

One of my favourites, which was recently published in North West Words magazine. 

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.