anticipation

i am devastated 
by the thought of losing you
it's true

but i don’t have to 
rehearse destruction
to prove my love

and i don't have to 
detach 
to become resilient 

resilience is trust
that i can endure what i cannot 
currently imagine

while allowing myself
to inhabit 
today

An epic sausage poem hath been writ

As a gift, for SausageFest 2026

 

Oh hallowed hose of holy ham!
This greatest achievement of man!
Whe'er from the grill,
Whe'er from the pan,
Blessed is the noble scran.

Sisters! Sons!
In crowds we gather,
with sausaged buns
in sauce to slather.

Praise, praise! the pig primordial,
HE is the source; his blood is cordial.
Provider of the meaty paste,
true founder of this cult of taste.

From flesh to flesh, let’s state our mission:
to honour this glorious tradition.
Older than the magna carta,
raise a glass,
and toast each martyr! (to the chipolata).

From genesis, it becomes cylindrical
(or other shapes, if you're feeling whimsical).
Foetal-like, the salty mulch,
must take form before we can indulge.

Venerable tube of spic-ed flesh
older than Jesus, and yet ...forever fresh.
The length, the girth, width and diameter,
true and measured, in each parameter.

Then strung up, like Mussolini;
the banger, dog, the frank, the weenie!
...But what's in a name? It's not interestin'.
What is, is meat! ...encased in intestine.

Long bag of chunks, so proud and tubular,
triumphant as a mounted bugler.
Every link, concatenated.
We watch the process, fascinated.

Our eyes they bulge, our stomachs grizzle
as sacrosanct sausages sizzle.
For in the flames, the charring phalluses
bequeath their juice, like broken chalices.

Hunks of fat and marbled meat
soon to entreat, this spicy treat.
A whiff of soot? ...they might need flipping!
Serve them on a platter dripping.

Each bead of fat, it consecrates
the happy jaw that masticates.
For to chomp and chew, that is our prayer.
The sound of hot gods are in the air.

Then by the condiments we muster.
For some, it's clear, it must be mustard.
Others favour red or brown,
or BBQ, if you're from the wrong side of town.

The smells are salvation,
the flavours delectable,
but send it back
if the eyelids are detectable!

Now heed your duty, hear my call:
to tell the tale, tell one, tell all.
Join the cult of kielbasa.
Cackle over kabanos.
Convert her to the frankfurter,
and in the process become...
A mortadella fella.
A slave to the salami.
A pupil of pepperoni.
A saveloy homeboy.
Become a black pudding protégé;
an andouille acolyte.
And finally,
cheer with aplomb, for the saucisson!

Kings come and go,
Queens live and die,
but still the sausages we fry.
In humble homes,
on open grill,
in public parks,
we take our fill.

Through millennia, it has endured.
May we all strive to be so cured
and if we can't, and must succumb,
to fates becoming of a bun:
wrinkled, stale, our memories gone.
Bless still the sausage, for it …lives on!

forcing words through a coarse sieve

Created as part of Sam Illingworth's workshop on writing science poetry on the climate crisis. The prompt: "pick a topic, pick a form, and write. you've got 3 minutes".

The world wanted me
To write in lines, but the wind changed
And I was, distracted

tall

even the biggest people are small
when they curl up into a ball. 

forever

your secret is safe
with me until the end
unless it's, funny

a mediocre poet

i'm a mediocre poet
and i can't tell
if i should care more
or care less

i'm a mediocre poet
it's a matter of taste
whether you win the prize
or get last place

i'm a mediocre poet
and I've always hated this format where the first line of each stanza is the same

Shame

Shame must change 
sides. But most (not all men)
are too cowardly to feel
shame. Too emotionally 
weak to do the hard work
of facing the consequences
of their actions.
Is there no greater achievement
for a man (but not all men)
to fearlessly look
not only out into the world
but even more so into themselves
and face
understand
digest
reflect on
and grieve with honesty their own
failings?
Instead they hide
behind a concocted ego
one they borrowed 
from someone else
they admire
when admiration is just jealousy 
except you still like them.
Instead men hide 
and wonder why 
they are lonely.

Pizza Pi

🍕

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Valentine 2026

in the crux of my heart
water becomes wine

beneath the moon
your kiss pauses time

over the soil
the dead flowers rise

we need not speak
now that everything rhymes