I’m an unstructured poet
Writing words
That I stretch to fit
Indeterminate subjects.
These are DLO words
Often failing to deliver.
Ideas lost in translation
Between brain and pen.
Part digested themes
Regurgitated as concepts.
Luckily I cherish all
My warped offspring.
Nurturing them
Until they are ready
To breath, leave and
Finally live.






Summer Smile

summer sun

You smiled at me in the summer,
I remember the warmth of your look.
Passion it seemed was in bloom,
As my heart you took.

You smiled at me in the autumn,
A look that blew me away.
Part of me seemed to wither,
My heart started to decay.

You smiled at me in the winter,
A harsh look that wouldn’t yield.
Your cold snap seized me,
My heart with ice was filled.

You smiled at me in the spring,
A fresh look blossoming on your face.
Our cycle begins again,
My heart refreshed awakes.



Lost Love Letters

Heart envelope

Sometimes love letters can go astray,
Ending up lost on a sorting room shelf.
Bundled away from the light of day,
Forced to keep their love to themselves.

Once pretty heart festooned envelopes fade,
Their contents never to reveal.
Unable to make someones day,
Another broken heart that will never heal.

So these letters are thrown in a dark room,
Left there to contemplate their fate.
Alone with nothing but their pity and gloom,
While expectant lovers for them still wait.

I Think My Husband Is A Vampire

A great poem from Marianne Burgess

Marianne Burgess Poetry Blog

I think my husband is a vampire

He never goes to bed,

He stays up watching telly;

Films of horror and blood shed.

And when he thinks I’m sleeping

I hear the front door creak,

And then he goes on walkabout;

Sometimes for a week…

We don’t have any pets now –

They seem to meet a sticky end;

It’s the marks upon their neck

That the vet can’t comprehend…

In our shed there is a coffin

He says he’s trying it for size;

In case he comes a cropper –

Should I hypothesize?

I think my husband is a vampire

His cheeks are lacking colour;

And he may have lost some weight,

He used to look a little fuller.

He says he’s changed his diet

That his taste is more refined –

He now likes a glass of ‘red’

In the evenings to unwind…

He was a vegetarian –

View original post 153 more words

No Sleep till Birmingham


You wake as the sun starts to rise,
Can’t shake the fog behind your eyes.
Drop your breakfast, scare the cat,
As you leave, trip over the door mat.

Stand at the bus stop half-awake,
Wondering how long it will take.
But you know when the bus comes,
Your sleeping all the way to Birmingham.

However as you set off to work,
Roadworks cause the bus to jerk.
So in your seat you bounce and slam,
Realising they’ll be no sleep till Birmingham.


Quick note. Birmingham UK is where I head every weekday to my job and this poem is sadly based on a story that happens so often it’s almost a serial.


A Load of Hot Air


Extensive research has determined that there are only three types of electric hand dryer in existence.

Firstly you have the sleek sci-fi dryer,
The kind that would fit in on Star Trek.
It boasts its prowess in its instructions,
Making you wonder what you are in for.
Wet hands are proffered tentatively,
As immediately a jet like roar starts up,
While an instantaneous nuclear blast of heat,
Makes your flesh vibrate like a cheap fairground ride.
Any water seems to disintegrate,
Leaving your hands with a warm toasty sensation.

Next you have the dryer that you last saw on the History Channel,
A battered metal box surely only fit for scrap.
It clings to the wall like a flailing mountain goat,
Faded instructions lost to the mists of time.
Wet hands are proffered optimistically,
While it starts with the speed of an old moped.
Then it produces a small warm cough,
That fades slowly like a summer breeze.
Hands still partly wet drip on the floor
Then you wipe them on your jeans.

Lastly there are those dryers that no matter how quickly you make jazz hand movements underneath them simply don’t work.

Memory Blisters


The only pleasure I ever got from
my parent’s old conservatory,
was taking a lump hammer to its
dour walls. Demolishing them,
with relish.

Bricks splinter as I
remember my hated music lessons
within conservatory walls.
I’d mangle scales, sending my sister
scrambling to turn the telly up.

Dust rises as I strike a blow
for all the times I was held hostage
by the rain. I would be there waiting,
my wellies willing the skies to clear. So I
could escape and lose myself in puddles.

Glass splinters as conservatory
windows fragment. I think back to
when I would press my face against them.
Ignoring my homework, I dreamed of
practicing daring stunts on my bike.

Silence. I stand among the rubble,
breathless but triumphant. Then I
dance on the debris enjoying its whimper
like crunch. I halt to pop my blisters, smiling
as my memories like their pain starts to fade


Quick story. I joined the Birmingham Stanza poetry group last month and this poem is the result of a workshop that was held there. The workshop gave each poet a room in a house and an emotion and we had to work them into a poem, my emotion was joy and my room the conservatory. Stanza is a great way to get to know poets in your area and expand your poetic powers click here to see if there is one in the UK near you, or if there isn’t see how to start your own.

Oh and I never really knocked down a conservatory, it’s still standing at my parents house.

Never Just a Cat. A poem for International Cat Day.

Snow International Cat Day

Some people say a cat
Is simply just a cat.

Cat’s simply like a lap,
That is flat.
They love a nap.
Unperturbed they never flap
Or stop to chat.
That’s all there is to a cat.

Or is there more to them than that?

A cat can proudly walk,
Or quietly stalk.
Chide you hourly with a squawk,
Their version of back talk.
Watch you keenly like a hawk.
As opposite to you as cheese to chalk.

So really a cat is never just that,
No cat is simply just a cat.


Cat picture is of the wonderful Snow, kindly supplied by my good chums the Williamsons.

Check out my other poem about cats here

It was a busy Thursday.

So yesterday I had a great if very busy day. In the morning I along with three other members of Walsall Poetry Society recorded some poems for Black Country Radio. If you want to hear us then the show will be broadcast this Sunday at 4pm UK time, you can listen along via the link.

Richard Archer at Black Country Radio 2

Here I am recording my poems

Then as If that wasn’t enough that night I went to Waterstones in Birmingham for the launch of Scroobius Pip’s new book, “Distraction Pieces.”

Richard Archer meets Scroobius Pip

Meeting the great man himself

So I’ll hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t have a poem today!

It’s 5pm at the Seaside

5pm at the seaside

It’s 5pm at the seaside.
Bikers lick ice creams
As jet skis go for one last spin,
Frothing the water a final time.
Beach goers pop beers
And nibble on fish and chips.
Keeping a wary eye on the gulls,
Who swoop in anticipation.

Toes are dipped in the sea
An electric shock of cold
Delightfully refreshes feet.
The world seems content
To stay exactly where it is.
So I do the same,
My pale limbs proudly out
Slowly reddening.

Another quick holiday story – See here for the last one. While watching the world go by at Herne Bay as it came time to think of going my wife noted it was five o’clock and the phrase it’s 5pm at the seaside popped into my head. After an ice cream and the drive home this poem was written.