I have worked as a journalist, a contributor to magazines, an editor, a reviewer and an interviewer. I am currently the editor of The Screech Owl. My poetry can be seen at Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Stare's Nest and The Screech Owl.
Alone in my room it's always the same,
10,000 fans all shouting my name.
I'm a Beatle, a Rolling Stone, a popular pantomime dame
With all my baubles aflame,
I'm going to scuttle them for the insurance claim.
Alone I weave in an embroidered frame,
10,000 stitches I overcame.
My hands are stretched and I proclaim:
"I'm going to rob a bank to win me some fame!"
It's better than sewing in shame.
Alone I plan and scheme with a purposeful aim,
£10,000 all shouting my name;
"Take us" they say but I know their game,
They want me to shoot the guard, to kill and maim,
I did not like what I became.
I'm the fastest man alive
I live on only a chive
I am born to pilfer
I made off with all of your silver
I forget I am the king
I keep my trousers up with a string
I live my days in a cell
I would like to run like a gazelle
I only consume coal in irons
I defecate blue diamonds
I roll down hills to the sound of sirens
I'm covered in a gale of dandelions
Westminster Bridge - Postcard circa 1900
Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, 18th May 2012
A tramp in full winter regalia:
Scratching raw, perhaps Albion in wool?
That rag-picker amongst the clenched pool
Of all about June in smoke, in dress fire.
Bagpipes rattle their war tins for hire
A wheeze of laments and blood downtrodden
Spare change for the widows of Culloden
Cried across the ghosts from ships to spires.
Old Ben still stands ready to toll God's truth
Carried by the waters of lonely tides,
The horsemen roam upon the gutted hoof
Sweeping all asunder ashore aside:
Dear God! The ripe stones themselves live as proof
That the city's heart still shakes like a bride.
©2014 Grant Tarbard