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To the explorers of the linguistic universe.


Keep your hosts of daffodils

Your weepy, whiney, verse

Don’t try to tell me

My writing is too terse


Don't question my choice of words

If they don't match your mood

Check your privilege at the gate

As there’s nothing I’d preclude


A healthy dose of realism

Will come knocking at your door

Don’t hide behind the curtains

Because its too hard to ignore


Living a poetic fantasy 

Of whimsy, fawn, and fae

Does not really cut it

In the hard, cold, light of day


The world tis a hard hard place

Life’s no shining bowl of cherries

When all we have are words and rhymes

To challenge such adversaries 


So no howling at the darken places

No barking at the moon

Just pen and ink and attitude

And paper to festoon


So take heed my friends and foe alike

And read my silken verse

For poets are naught but explorers

Of the linguistic universe.

February 25th 2021

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Planting Trees in Mongolia


March and April are the months 

Of sandstorms in Beijing 

Three in the past weeks alone

The Gobi desert is moving

Filling the air with its malevolence

Choking dust in a blinding wind

But they are planting trees 

In Mongolia


Pollution level six

A yellow warning

To the humans in its path

Creeping, creeping

Closer inexorably

Swallowing the land

Suffocating, swirling grit

But they are planting trees 

In Mongolia


The Gobi was devouring

Ten thousand four hundred square kilometres 

A year

The monster had to be stopped

Nature fighting nature

Humans dwarfed against the competition

And yet

Trees. It's all about the trees

In Mongolia


The quintessence of man's greed

And folly

Stripped Mother Earth 

Of her green mantle

Releasing the

Asian Dust

And they are planting trees 

In Mongolia


Fighting fire with fire

China has planted 

Eighty-eight billion trees

An auspicious number 

For the Great

Green Wall.

Five thousand kilometres 


Planting trees in Mongolia 


Let's hail heroes 

Such as Wang Yinji

And his family

Unceasingly planting trees

Hail the spindly huabang,

The yellow sweetvetch,

Now, says Wang, surrounded

By Pines, Blue Spruce

And rhubarb…

There are trees in Mongolia



"Our  corn grows taller.

The sand that used to blow

In from the east and northeast 

Has stopped."

Holding down the sand

Grain by grain

Metre by metre

Tree by tree

By the sweat of the brow

The monster is being tamed. 

By planting trees 

In Mongolia




Today it is my Birthday

I’m feeling kinda tired

Yet only 20 years ago

I’d have been feeling kinda wired


Today it is my Birthday

Another year gone

I’m wondering about all those

Great things I shudda done


I shudda travelled round the world

And seen the Taj Mahal

Kissed all the lovely women

Not let my life just pall


I shudda climbed some mountains

And swim in the Japan Sea

Sing monkey songs with monkeys

Eat marmosets for tea


I shudda walked the China wall

And swum with dolphins free

I shudda leapt that canyon grand

On a fat boy Harley D


I shudda worshipped idols

On the road to Shangri La

Listened to the silent monks

Just one hand clapping – Nah!


I shudda spent some money

On diamond rings and pearls

I shudda spent some evenings

With durty durty girls

I shudda found some inner peace

I shudda found a route

I shudda got my arse in gear

For my tree of life to fruit


I shudda had the kumquats

The centre sweet and soft

Lived a magazine type lifestyle 

In an airy New York Loft


Or I shudda been a poet

Eating canapés and brie

Like William Butler Bloody Yeats

On the isle of Innisfree


But today it is my birthday

And all that stuff is tosh

If I really take a look around

My life is just awash


My loving wife and family

My darling grown up girl

Make all these sad sad sad regrets

Unpick, deflate, unfurl


Who wants a New York lifestyle?

And Marmosets for tea?

Who cares about the idols?

And the fat boy Harley D?


I’d rather have my family

Than all the China tea

Because after all that moaning

I’m pretty pleased with me


So hurrah today’s my birthday

I’ll sip a malt whiskey

But maybe one day you’ll find me

On that Isle of Innisfree.


Et tu Extremist?


In the quiet stir of dissent,

voices rise against the backdrop

of complicity, of silence,

etched in the annals of power.


Extremist forces, they say,

are the dissenters, the challengers

of policies and decisions

that bear the weight of blood

and the echoes of forgotten lives.


They speak of lands ravaged,

of innocence lost in the shuffle

of geopolitical games,

where arms flow like rivers

and justice stands as a mere spectre.


Extremist forces, they argue,

are those who refuse the binary,

the dualities of power

that offer no true refuge

from the storm of oppression.


In the corridors of democracy,

they demand representation

for the marginalized,

for the voices drowned

beneath the cacophony of status quo.


Extremist forces, they challenge

the very fabric of governance,

the pillars of deceit and greed

that crumble beneath the weight

of their unwavering dissent.


In the tumult of their cries,

lies the audacity of hope,

the belief in a world

unshackled by the chains

of corruption and tyranny.

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