Tagged: alan martin

Poetry from Alan Martin

  Troubled Waters Words, today, come at me like  squalls at sea, unexpected, disruptive, whipping up breakers into shark’s teeth. There is a current in them; it is heading for the rocks. I wade...

Grace Notes

FALLING AND RISING. You either have it or, sadly, you will just have to bumble along without it. It is no use, either, thinking that you can squeeze into it, like hauling on a...

River – a Poem from Alan Martin

  RIVER From aquifers and seeping wells ageless drips accrued like gold then springing forth, untrammeled, free a river nascent bubbles bold, set to run through guiding lands learning, learning every inch flowing seawards,...

Oh for a Silent Night…

A quirky little reflection on Christmas and its meaning…       CHRISTMAS GHOST   It was the night of the party, the Big Band’s Christmas bash, and my wife was a principal player:...

A Poem from Alan Martin

    FIT FOR PURPOSE   I remember Martha, homesteading homely Martha; her wondrous happy calm mixed with fortitude and wellie boots. And then there was Gordie, her good old boy, always ready with...

A Poem from Alan Martin

Another beautiful poem from local writer Alan Martin, with thanks from Pembrokeshire.Online… VALE I could settle right here, like alluvia, in this slow paced verdant vale, where the river wanders, and events unfold in...

Of Guildsmen and Bootboys…

Reflections on another time… City skins rule OK? The terse message told of an uncompromising tribe who scrawled it on buses, bus shelters and buildings across the metropolis. Skinhead brutalist fashion was at its...

Poetry from Alan Martin

FIFTY METRE NEWS Highly transmissable, this blight of homely airs that leaks from my radio, on the hour, every hour, if I am not lightning fast; the dreadful news in morbid repitition. Gloom enumerated,...

A Hermit’s Life

In one issue of Raven’s Bread, a newsletter for those interested in the solitary life, Wood B Hermit is pictured standing in front of an office that issues various permits and licences. His eyes...

Poetry: ‘Tis the Season

By Alan Martin Surprised, yet again, by autumnal torpor,  and, intent on understanding, I settle to observing rain, and the consequent habits of snails, and the number of blackbirds that take to my lawn, with...