A poem about a very beautiful woman called Claudia who's powerful persona and laughter use to roll around us like a midnight thunder.

Two haiku poems , TEAR DROP shows how a Tsunami can start from the slightest ripple. REVOLTING, another haiku poem on how if you distract someone with something revolting it can avert a revolution ie Rome's Colosseum or today's violent multimedia sedate the sapiens savagery and let the status quo grow .

A musing about the Star Trek scientists who make our intergalactic fate sound like a subway ride through a station Stargate .

Being at sea aboard huge luxury vessels is very glamorous. As a skipper-come-captain, it is easy to be wined and dined each evening by billionaires with the finest foods and drinks. The only drawback is that you steadily become an old soak. I worked alongside many captains who became just that.

Thinking back to a collision at night with JJ, the skipper, and a refugee boat – he had gotten drunk with a stewardess and gone to bed, leaving the vessel on autopilot. The similarities to the Titanic are on a much smaller scale but just as deadly. Doing double dog watch shifts doesn't help. Instead of 4 hours, you do 8, covering for someone or even the milk shift when you start at midnight and sometimes finish six hours later. Dozing off is so easy if the autopilot's on. Many of our crew used to come on the milk shift smelling of booze – sea watches disorientate you. I've seen quite a few old sailors having a beer for breakfast as they come off the first watch at 4 am.

Buying power tools at the hardware store? you truly may as well  arm yourself with a weapon of war and become yet another one of the do it yourself casualty score , around the world figures run into the hundreds of thousands the body counts are much higher than in most actual modern theatres of war .

When you reach fifty, plus tax, and still see yourself as a sexy silver fox with those ash-gray locks, you might want to forget about the fifty shades of grey, and perhaps put your old sex pistol away.

A poem about an old rag and bone man who started out with just a horse and cart then after a life of skinflinting strife became very rich but even after acquiring great wealth he still retained his beggar man roots and rhetoric.

Setting off on a world tour in the late seventies was nothing like it is today there were no mobile phones or multimedia just the odd phone box for calls your thumb and forefinger were used for hitchhiking thousands of miles around the globe taking years and years almost a decade to the point where many of us became wonderless with our own wanderlust but we did become quite skilled in the art of conversation due to spending so much time speaking with strangers back when you had the safety of being completely anonymous due to not having any mobiles or multmedia where as now the new wage travellers or tech tramps are so guarded due to the sapiens surveillance of God Google and the silicone starzi Siri .

Greta has an almost impossible sales pitch she's to demand that the incredibly rich dumped that expensive pieces of kitsch , they fly to the cop out climate meetings in their lear jets and show not the slightest hesitation of any regrets, her gargantuan glitch is to try to move these people towards the green dream of a beggars itch, but these dinosaurs who block destiny's drawbridge are mega rich and have no intention of surrendering any of their Kardashian kitsch. To quote Churchill sardonically, , "Never was so much owed by so many to so few".

A tune for my godson Todd who's five years old it was inspired by listening to him talking about his modern dance class which involves quite a lot of acrobatics including parkouring from the kitchen table onto the floor then spinning round on his back hissing loudly like a fried egg or an angry snake.