I know what being in exile is like.
I am after all, I know, exile’s son.
Should be grateful that still standing upright,
and not been hung, drawn and quartered like some.

But regarded still as an alien,
after treated in an alien way.
In the bible, … history …, always some
banished, because prepared to disobey.

Consequence of an abrupt use of force.
Singled-out for the imposed punishment.
Removal from scene, the obvious course.
The whole purpose, not to find innocent.

And so, now, in this exiled place I wait,
with my alienation from the state.


What do I make of my infrastructure?
It is worthy of consideration.
Would not make a good lightning conductor.
Go right through me, the precipitation.

Mostly flesh and fat, and bone, and organ.
Soft tissue brought to life by a strange charge.
Brain’s electricity. Senses began.
Fired up, until released in a discharge.

Not much to go on, this identity.
A name bequeathed me, for being distinct.
Current, though, won’t last indefinitely.
A bolt from the blue, and I’ll be extinct.

I’m a sort of Frankenstein creation,
within which natural degradation.


I’m prepared to live with disappointment,
as often there’s little choice about it.
Only balm, equivalent of ointment,
is comfort from others, to discount it.

The girl in the park in the long check coat
carries a shoulder bag, “Get Over It”
written on it, black on red, quite bespoke.
Message applies more than a little bit.

A lonely path when good fortune deserts.
Gains expected, but losses come as well.
In one’s mind, will think suffered a reverse,
but may yet go on from there, just as well.

Perhaps, not quite as well as would have been,
but the disappointment not all that seem.


Joan Didion wrestled with, what she called,
“the meaninglessness of experience”.
Existentially, I suppose, appalled.
For our own use, when dead, it is nonsense.

Politically, too, don’t seem to learn.
Repressive regimes repeatedly come.
Obvious failures, we’re slow to discern.
And, wars of spite still, deceivingly, run.

Ideas, perhaps, may continue on.
They may have an influence on new ones.
Someone’s presence remembered, although gone.
Confluence of unknown makes what becomes.

She says, as returns from the grief-strewn sea,
“I remember what it is to be me.”


The march on to victory, progressing.
Attaining a successful transference.
Difficulty, formally expressing
where I am heading, and its elements.

But it’s been a long, gradual journey,
and I am not all the way there, just yet.
But it’s almost in sight, in front of me.
I imagine this nearness is correct.

It’s a fertile plain of contentedness.
Almost like a personal Shangri-la.
Left behind the evil contentiousness.
To get beyond that, I have travelled far.

It is an unexpected victory
that, I think, begins to apply to me.


I have not been of much use to myself.
I have not merited fame or glory.
Or exerted myself, while in good health.
Or told, out there, a fantastic story.

My projected self has not gone too far.
It has stayed in touch with my inner me.
Not enough been able to touch a star,
although poet I am, would disagree.

My core being has needed to feel safe.
Not to risk too much in the outside world.
Ensure my mad ego is kept in place.
Not be, by it or me, rocket propelled.

That seemed like a blast to oblivion,
whilst still making sense of my confusion.


Ten, Jack, Queen, King, and an Ace in the hole.
But am I misunderstanding my role?
A Royal Run has always been a goal,
But which of the cards am I, when all’s told?

Ten is a high number; status or wealth.
But not what I’ve been aiming for myself.
A Jack would have to play his tricks by stealth.
But called a knave, could think of little else.

A Queen, now associate with duty.
Not me, or the younger version; beauty.
A King, I think, might possibly suit me,
until deposed or assassin shoots me.

Of those four high-value cards, I am none.
Like the Ace in my pocket, I am one.


I never got there. Had to abandon.
I did not make it to where intended.
Plan, and situation, not in tandem.
A ‘going no further state’ descended.

At least, that way, to that destination.
Somewhat abruptly my permit expired.
No merit in an investigation.
From the endeavour, I simply retired.

Amazingly, at the start of this verse,
a girl approached me, in order to pet
my two dogs. I didn’t notice at first,
what was said on her tee-shirt in print set.

Those words, relevant here, she had to say
were “Don’t look back, you’re not going that way.”


I have been the greatest poet alive.
At least in my own humble assessment.
Perhaps egotistically derived,
but much recorded, as my testament.

I have been amazingly prolific.
The poems have flowed en masse out of me.
I personally think this terrific.
My sonnets, legitimate poetry.

And they have something to say, I would say.
A message. A meaning. A sentiment.
Transient thoughts, a little longer stay.
Within verse, embalmed. This, their element.

I praise my writing them. I have excelled.
Made ‘best poet’ in my own little world.


Near to a state of collapse and dismay.
My order and purpose in disarray.
Self-punishing obstacles in the way
of putting on a coherent display.

Over time, I suppose expect decay.
Can’t ensure peak of brilliance will stay,
although, with luck, aspects for a while, may.
But, if demoralised, a price to pay.

And yet, think this same old mind game I play,
contributes to keeping decline at bay.
Acuity, if not sharp, is okay.
Able to get me through another day.

When the rhymes done, to myself a ‘hurray’.
Whole army, or just one, be on parade.