The Poems & Snippets 

These are the snapshots. Brief, rhythmic, and scrawled in the margins of a busy day.

Some were written in the quiet moments before a chaotic kitchen service; others were pulled from the memory of a face or by life's challenges home and away. They were part of my world as I went about my way.

GRANDAD'S OAD

My dear Grandsons,

Remembering Mariella Novotny

Positano

Pastel houses cling to cliffs,

leaning over seas of green and blue.

An ode to beauty, a hymn to light,

from dawn’s first glow until velvet night.

Steep stairways tumble from mountain to shore,

to pebbled beaches and the ocean’s roar.

Steinbeck dreamed here, with pen in hand,

from lobster pots to ice creams on the sand.

Mercedes, scooters, buses wind through narrow streets, where one can find

cafés humming, boutiques that gleam,

a village spun from a painter’s dream.

Buy art and craft, try cotton wear,

taste Campania’s treasures there;

or sandals made with measured grace—

a handmade gift of time and place.

Climb the “Path of Gods” on high,

where lemons ripen, orchids lie,

where mountain springs and fountains sing,

and swallows cut the sky in wing.

Swim the warm sea, explore hidden caves,

rest on the rocks where the tide behaves;

sip fresh lemonade on the shore,

while Positano whispers: stay once more.

When twilight falls, the grand yachts gleam,

their owners lost in a moonlit dream.

“Music on the Rocks” invites the night—

James Dean once danced beneath its light.

The sand grows warm, the corks take flight,

the sea itself begins to write.

The air—intoxicating, rare,

or maybe just the cocktails’ snare.

Positano, painted bold,

a palette of stories, new and old.

As Steinbeck wrote, the truth runs deep:

“Positano bites hard—and will not sleep.”

Miss Vincent: Unseen

Miss Vincent, we thought that we knew you so well,

The life of the party, with stories to tell.

Acquainted by many, outgoing and bright,

But truth has revealed you were hidden from sight.

Miss Vincent, you masked your emotional pain,

A flawless performance you felt you must feign.

Too fearful to let any honesty start,

You locked up the door to your secretive heart.

You were eloquent, beautiful, clever, and kind,

Yet no one could see what was breaking your mind.

You seemed to have everything, brilliant and whole,

While secretly carrying tears in your soul.

You were loved by the crowd, yet you kept them at bay,

Your loneliness buried and hidden away.

Like a shadow that drifts through the chill of the night,

Unable to find your way back to the light.

The illusions of perfect reality fade,

As we look at the heavy, sad bargain you made—

Wiping the tears of a devastating fate,

And masking the pieces that carried such weight.

Miss Vincent, you vanished, and nobody knew;

No one was aware of the end came to you.

A quiet departure, a heartbreaking end...

We mustn’t allow this to become a new trend.

I Think I’ve Got the Blues

Expectations low,

acting the clown,

telling a lie,

chasing a high.

The days come and go,

but there’s one thing you should know:

I think I’ve got the blues—

in my head,

in my bones,

in my smile.

I grew up in hard times,

an overcrowded shack,

nothing to warm me

but a second-hand rain-mack.

Ain’t no sunshine

since I don’t know when.

I think I’ve got the blues—

in my head,

in my bones,

in my smile.

They say fight or flight

is the natural way,

but for me it’s just

getting through the day.

Feels like I’m dying

from the weight of what used to be.

I think I’ve got the blues—

in my head,

in my bones,

in my smile.

I bought a lotto ticket

to shed those damned blues.

Next thing I knew,

I was making the news!

Played to win,

but lost all the same;

winning the jackpot

was never the aim.

I think I’ve got the blues—

in my head,

in my bones,

in my smile.

Sectioned and detained,

written off as deranged.

Every day, inebriated,

my senses estranged.

Strapped to a bed,

unable to move,

dismissed and forgotten,

pleading—let me go free!

I think I’ve got the blues—

in my head,

in my bones,

in my smile.

Now it’s just me

and the shrink in the room.

So I asked him straight,

“What’s your view?”

Like a bolt from the blue,

without pause or denial,

came his reply:

“I think you’ve got the blues—

in your head,

in your bones,

in your smile.”

An Ode to Jeffrey Bernard

(Jeffrey Bernard Is Unwell)

O Jeffrey, bard of Soho nights,

you raised your glass to fleeting heights.

Each draught, you claimed, uncloaked the mind, a sharper truth than most could find.

Low Life columns, raw and clear,

spoke of a world both harsh and dear.

With gambling’s lure and lovers lost,

you chronicled the charm—and cost.

A poet’s tongue, a cynic’s art,

a wit that pierced, a bleeding heart.

When asked if drink consumed your breath, you laughed—“Not yet. I drink for death.”

In taverns thick with smoke and song,

with Dylan, Bacon, you belonged.

Tom Baker, O’Toole at your side,

legends in fellowship allied.

The Coach and Horses knew your name,

the Colony Room was much the same.

Yet always Soho called you back,

its neon glow, its endless track.

Your step unsteady, yet your fire

burned with a reckless, fierce desire.

No stumble dimmed the poet’s spark,

your voice rang bright, though nights grew dark.

Now Waterhouse has etched your days,

immortal in his play and praise.

But still we hear your laughter swell—

Jeffrey Bernard is unwell.

Smombie People

No face-to-face.

No words that linger.

No time to share, no time to care.

Our attention is stolen—captured, caged, sold—

by the glow of screens that never sleep.

Facebook, TikTok, Instagram—

our windows to the world,

or our mirrors of obsession?

We scroll, swipe, double-tap,

living in microseconds,

trading depth for dopamine.

It’s grab-and-go culture.

A constant buffet of images we don’t touch,

opinions we barely digest,

friends we barely meet.

Zombie-like, we shuffle.

Eyes locked on glowing rectangles,

thumbs dancing,

hearts pumping digital approval.

We care about how we appear

more than how we exist.

We rant, rate, create, delete, repeat.

Instant gratification is not just expectation—

it’s a requirement,

a contract we didn’t sign.

Zuckerberg’s dream of connection?

A fatal attraction.

A trap disguised as a handshake.

And we are paying for it.

Mental health spirals,

identity fractured,

perfection measured in pixels, likes, erections.

We used to find our own corrections.

Now we wait for algorithms to teach us how to live.

The next new thing is a religion:

The emperor’s new clothes,

Silver magic ships,

Sweet Mary Jane.

We chase illusions like moths to neon.

And when the world burns,

we scroll past.

We blame social media for our cinematic reactions.

We blame the past on our times.

We blame politicians, religion, money,

even gravity,

for the chaos we inherit.

But the hardest truth?

We blame everyone…

except ourselves.

We are the architects of our digital cages.

The curators of our own isolation.

The zombies staring at screens,

while life unfolds behind our backs.

Wake up. Look up.

Talk to the person next to you.

Feel. Laugh. Cry. Err. Correct yourself.

Before the glow consumes the last human spark inside us

A Cover Tells Its Own Tale 

We all have our thoughts, that's plain to see. Dad’s is firmly fixed on the T.V.

He’s done all the hard work. He's studied all the horses, found the best odds and has placed his bet.

The children don’t want to watch and play on their own. And, as for the dog he’s content with a bone.

Dad awaits for the starter to run up the tape. Now, it’s all down to his horse and jockey to deliver his fate.

Less than five minutes is all it will take.

The children have ask to switch T.V, they prefer CBBC. They want Mr Tumble and are making a riot.
All dad wants is a bit of peace and quiet.

Now, our in the country, just as billed, his horse and jockey lead the field. Hooves of thunder as they run to the next.
Angels without wings in many respects.

The children turn as the volume goes up.

Anyone would think it was the cheltenham gold cup.

Finally, they are at the last, three locked together too close to grasp.

But dad’s horse jumps best of all and scanters clear, as we all let out the mightiest of cheer.

So as you can see, we all have our thoughts, whatever they be.

From this picture cover comes this poem from me.

Political Correctness

Whatever you say, it might well offend—

This thing called Political Correctness.

It drives me mad, around the bend,

Yet still it grows, a rising trend.

You can’t say tart, old, gay, black, or white,

best watch your tongue both day and night.

Even girl or boy can spark offence,

If gender-neutral is the preference.

I know I’m aging—yes, it’s true,

but now it appears I’m chronologically gifted too.

Once we laughed, we joked with cheer,

Now silence lingers, ruled by fear.

It feels like satire, wordplay gone wrong,

An oxymoron dressed in a carry-on song.

I honour respect, I value care,

But PC makes it hard to share.

Instead of unity, bridges, or peace,

We’ve sharpened division; goodwill’s decreased.

What began with kindness has veered off far—

Political correctness has gone too far.

A Family Gathering 

We all met by the beach hut, sun in our eyes,

Old family , new family , a motley surprise.

Some looked like Zappa, some more like tort,

Some sprinted with energy, some barely could court.

Those pebbles just keep on rolling out to sea.

We marched down the shingle, past squishy warm mud,

Kids screaming, dogs sliding, stuck in the crud.

The sun winked at water, the sky was so bright,

We splashed, we paddled, we fought like a fight.

Those pebbles just keep on rolling out to sea.

At last, we collapsed, a beer in my hand,

Bliss at last, the day going just as planned.

Kids zoomed like rockets, dogs bounced like corks,

I toasted our meet - then suddenly defeat!

“Hut number two!” He cried, full of glee,

Just as we settled—goodbye, no beer for me!

Those pebbles just keep on rolling out to sea.

Our host waved cheerily, towel draped on his shoulder,

“Don’t forget the sunscreen!” he bellowed bolder.

We juggled the buckets, the spades, and the bags.

As we set for a walk in the heat not a treat.

Those pebbles just keep on rolling out to sea.

So we trundled along, luggage, kids, dogs in tow,

Dreaming of a pool, or maybe even snow.

The sun beat down, the sand stuck to our feet,

I wondered if the next hut come with a seat.

Those pebbles just keep on rolling out to sea.

Finally came supper, fish and chips galore,

A feeding frenzy, seagulls diving to score.

Crispy, greasy, a carnival of crunch,

I longed for my couch and a quiet old fashioned lunch.

Those pebbles just keep on rolling out to sea

Thanks for the Memories

Thanks for the memories, each one playing its part—

A life well-lived, held close to my heart.

From childhood days, when summers were long

And the moonlit nights felt wrapped in song,

To this present moment, where time takes flight,

Racing ahead at the speed of light.

Memories of loved ones—some gone, some near—

Still cherished daily, always held dear.

Moments I’ve longed to live over again,

Like warm, soft sand flowing through my hands.

Thanks for the laughter, the joy, the delight—

Some moments simple, others shining bright.

I’ve walked on the wild side, shown tenderness too,

I’ve won and I’ve lost, yet stayed steadfast and true.

So thank you for chapters—my best and my worst,

For people I’ve met and the lessons rehearsed,

For places I’ve traveled, for lives intertwined,

For family and friends, framed in memory’s mind.

And I’ll end this reflection with one truth to hold:

No riches or jewels, no silver or gold,

Can ever outshine what our hearts enfold—

Memories, the purest treasures of old.