That British Gem (or WTF NHS)

I have this jewel of common good
A proof of social capital
Where every sick, poor, fat, doomed, soul
Is treated as individual
A simple pearl of light done right
Global beacon of the practical

This human rumour, shared response
My catchall public collateral
Has gifted our forebears the wealth of health
And pledged my heirs theirs in perpetual
My gem of preciousness nearly unique
Endows a nation; achievable

Lately the state, for private account,
Seeks to plunder this bounty – sly and piecemeal
I feel their reach, their devious claw
The foetid breath, the nocturnal,
And fear a loss so great and deep.

Still, I doubt these Devils unstoppable

Young children unsure of the benefits of sun-lamps, Bristol health centre, July 1948.

Young children unsure of the benefits of sun-lamps, Bristol health centre, July 1948.

She Knew She Was Gorgeous – They Told Her So (2)

I am here today
She cried
In this bright sun
She never lied
So come and see
Was her last line
whilst flung her arms and spread them wide.

Dancing through the tragic morning.
Arms so wide
and legs so leggy.
Curved a beauty picture did she,
curved it once then twice
and thricely.

Chancing that this day was ending.
Now that she had danced
through noon,
swiftly brought the night’s dark dresses,
so this girl could lure the moon.

Here was precious movement truly.
Now we see what beauty is:
Moon so bulbous white and holy,
this dance lent the Earth her kiss.

She Knew She Was Gorgeous – They Told Her So (1)

Almost doubly entrancing.
How they knew?
How she found him?
This was such a questioned story
always long but rarely weary.

Question was:
Where had she come from?
Likely boozers asked each night.
Answers fled from drunken heads
but when she came,
all knew ‘twas right!

So she came
in flaming glory.
Stood so tall and curvy wavy.
Flooded eyes with jealous loving –
caught their tears
to spice her gravy.

Here was such a mighty mistress.
Form so strong
with head so red.
Where the damsel set her passage,
each knew this
and off they fled.

Only one sweet soul devotion
sought such soothing love by night.
This companion
read her message,
brought himself
to her grand bed.

Kayes Aunty Merton Road

A distant relative circa 1900

A ‘their’ crisis

The see-saw of political woe
Tips again, sending Europe low
Incongruous savagery glitters in eyes
Drowning those caught in Mediterranean lies

As Persian calamities blossom their fruit
Following Western confoundings stamped red under boot
Where opportune bastards enjoy their destruction
The shores of South Europe lap with waves of disgust

It’s impossible, isn’t it, to see through the sea
This chronicled tangle of bloody hypocrisy
Lost on the minds of those leaders of fame
What smirks of confidence, for re-consciencing blame…

“It’s here” say the moppers who soak up the blood,
Whether northern beaches, whether the south
“We are to blame” call the lefties in Putney
Even while they choose here (“Arab murderous thugs”)

Glorious, pointless, baseless waste
Leaving no solid grounds for dissent except an onerous taste
Even while oil fields burn far distant skies
Ingenious savagery glitters in eyes.


Crowning walls of mass denial,
walls built in aggression
and felled in reprisal.
Quiet now relics standing –
few number though –
a presence held that’s whole commanding…

This vast domain
where the sun is in reign
where a single slow river
is all that’s not slain…

Tower Luxembourg 2015

A velvety cushion (for grass is the master)
encasing the body
that lasted the Blaster.
Now struggle-free captive
with no breath left to breathe
lies still while its mettle’s
lifted free on the breeze.

A buxom republic
that’s lost all its public
that’s empty and rustic
and awesome and tragic.


Clarity arrives, in from the rain
just as the nurse jabs a prominent vein.
Glibly you joke on the weight of the rain
and quietly – in solitude and briefly –
you’re allowed to reflect on the weight in those veins.

Coolly these fabulous drugs run their course.
Deeply they permeate down to the cause.
Gooey and caustic, all reaching of course,
by killing you slowly – from inside and minutely –
the medics explain that they’re killing the cause.

Just as the last drops of drip flow within
I’m drawn to the bruise that remains on a skin.
To ponder the reason and drive that’s within,
where to find a direction – and place to direct
the future of you, once clean to the skin.

Terminal – a pamphlet


Terminal Cover shotHot on the heals of the success(sic) of August Stock, here is the second Pamphlet of poetry from Adam.


Tales about space.

Two poems: Journey, a musical exploration of space and our earth bound view of it; Evening Sun, expressing the experience of enjoyment found in appreciating a good hard sunset.

Download the pdf here. Or you are welcome to pay $3 (£1.99) here to receive a copy from Amazon.

The dodgy artwork is from initial sketches of Adam’s on the original paper copy of Terminal, created some time ago. I will happily replace with entertaining suitable artwork if you care to submit…

All feedback welcome.