Ah, nettles. August walks wouldn’t be the same without these special friends would they? Grrr.

Stinging nettle


after the apocalypse,
you, with your pain suit and your stealth roots
will survive –
a zig-zag scrap of hope
(at least for the butterflies).
But, though I know you to be
a sleeping saviour,
unwavering in the face of eco-calamity,
I still loathe you.

There you stand, waist-high,
all shouty trousers,
the glad-swaggering big I,
your two-bit tendrils lunging brashly –
just an overgrown irritant
acting rashly.

And beside you,
the dreary dock leaves
paddle-faced and dead-eyed
clutch their scout badges tight and simper:
We’re really VERY sorry.
Come, crush our worthless bodies
to ease your blisters.


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Image by analogicus from Pixabay


Maybe it’s the dim midwinter light, but January seems to be dedicated to  taking a rather harsh view of ourselves. In reality, most of us are already doing our best with a lot, and need to be taking on not more, but less.

Well, at least until cloning machines are up and running.


I am scaling a mossy wall
whilst plate-spinning
and playing the bagpipes.

[On distant asphalt, a
side-plate smashes.]

Before I know it, it’s January 1st.
“I will now also paint
the wall as I climb!” I proclaim.

[My bagpipes flail
like a spent lung.]

The wall giggles.
“You should have just vowed
to grow more hands,” it says.

[I kick the wall.
Descent is rapid.
Cancel the paintbrushes.]




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Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash



Christmas Morning Chaos

If you’re contemplating leaving something out for Santa and his reindeer on Christmas Eve, I’m posting this up as a warning… “Dont give booze to Rudolph!”

Christmas Morning Chaos

The night had gone well, it was true,
And Santa sat down, with a “phew!”
Then he shouted “my deers!
Let’s crack open some beers,
He really did NOT think that through.

Cos Santa had not heard the news,
That reindeer CANNOT take their booze,
And soon, plucky Cupid,
Was no longer lucid,
And went for a cry in the loos.

Next, Donner and Blitzen went rogue,
Hot-twerking to Kylie Minogue,
And Dasher drank rum,
Which burnt his poor tum,
Then threw up on Santa’s new brogues.

Then Dancer and Prancer were bitchin’,
And Comet passed out in the kitchen,
Naughty Rudolph, uh-oh,
Was sent out in the snow,
For making lewd gestures to Vixen.

As the party crashed on until six,
And they conga’d like crazed lunatics,
Santa rued his mistake,
Should have just brought a cake!
Because reindeer and booze do not mix!

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