After Hours
After Hours is a page that arrived when I wasn’t watching.
Poetry lives here without needing to explain itself.
Some pieces are short enough to slip into a pocket.
Others linger, pace the room, and refuse to leave.
These poems come from quiet places:
airports after midnight,
roads that don’t end when they’re supposed to,
rooms where memory does the talking.
A whisky before bed
They aren’t polished to impress.
They’re written to tell the truth while it’s still warm.
I Am The Son Of A Fisherman
I am the son of fishermen,
gnarl-fisted men of the sea,
who throw their garbage overboard
and stand on the poop to pee.
I’m descended of these fishermen
who lie in the merciless deep.
Could be that they fell overboard
while drunk or half-asleep.
I am the child of fishermen
who cursed God for their bad luck.
Through tempting fate like they did
surely sank the Farting Duck.
Don’t sail to the edge of the open sea’cause
likely you’ll fall off,
but I was young and bold as brass,
on me such words were lost.
I am no more a fisherman,
they took my boat away.
They say the world’s a safer place. Ha ha.
I bought a plane today.
A Shit Poem Because I’m Shit Angry
The horrors come home to me
in newspapers, then on TV.
Women torn to rags by tank shells.
This isn’t entertainment.
It’s a place in hell.
We watch the war from a distance,
cheer Ukrainian resistance,
boo the Russian army with full-throated hate
while NATO and America debate.
Dictators come. Dictators go.
You’d think by now we’d bloody know.
History grinds its ancient route
while politicians wonder what it’s all about.
MiGs idle on the runway.
Use them. Don’t. Who’s to say?
Ask a fighter on the ground:
Give me some backup in the sky. Now.
Refugees cross the Polish border,
eager to return when we restore order.
Give the children back the homes they had.
To think we can’t is too fucking sad.
One man alone holds the world in fear.
When did America allow democracy’s tears?
Boys in the street playing with tyres,
soon to be soldiers if we don’t aspire
to be who we claim we are,
the best nation on earth, by far.
Do not let these children learn
they are worth nothing.
America stands. Is counted. At last.
Procrastinate no more. Act fast.
It won’t be easy. It never is, Kennedy said.
We cannot let democracy fall down dead.
For centuries we’ve listened to autocrats’ lies,
witnessed the bloodshed, heard innocent cries.
Since spears and archers and boiling oil,
men have sought to conquer and govern all.
Romans. Turks. The Chinese today.
Always someone saying, "Now’s not the way."
The nuclear option, the modern spear,
Putin wields it to cultivate fear.
Mongols. Hungarians. Death as tool.
Threatening the world as if we were fools.
Zelenskyy is a man of his time.
Biden could finish this rhyme.
NATO is our partner. We must act as one.
Stuff Putin and company up history’s bum.
Let kids go back to the street to play.
Let people work. Let them vote.
Let Europe say yes today.
Wrapping Up with rap
dis a poem you ain’t gonna get written by a man
who ain’t over it yet
sit back
relax
cut me some slack
don’t worry coz i ain’t sorry
lovin’ you to tears your name in my ears
since you outta sight ain’t done nothin’ right
what to wish for
what I want anymore
you outta this world ain’t nothin’
I can do no way to handle
the way
I miss you