There is no denying that live music is at best a fragile industry at the moment. A lot of fingers have been pointed at the causes, but are there any answers? I believe there are, but not comfortable ones.
A commissioned sonnet, printed as a bedroom decoration.
A short, formless poem inspired by a view from the A14 back in 2008.
When I have writers block, sometimes it becomes my subject. This is one of my older poems now, but the fact that I can still read it suggests it may have some longevity in it. What do you think?
Father heaves a great autumnal sigh And lays her down in darkness Her sallow countenance belies A crystalline hope As carefully, delicately she draws Her pristine gown of white Around her neck, as she awaits Her groom, the coming spring. by Ben Cook This poem
Hush, come quietly by
For now the mice are praying