My Poetry: Bus Ride into Town

A woman with a pram,

High street bags by her feet

Watches her daughter sleeping.

An old man sways, hanging off a rail

Each bump drawing a grimace

On his wizened face.

A blonde with red lipstick

Flashes a cheap diamond finger

From the latest unsuitable suitor.

A fella with a swan nesting

On manual labour hands

Sits so I can smell his lifestyle.

A hipster beanie, embarks

He's taking his moustache on a date,

To a trend bar full of clones.

A couple sit in silence

They shall be loyal untill death

Robs the other of a friend.

I skinhead, with Wu Tang tattoo,

Waits to get off with teen girl,

Her smile suggests he's not the first.

A woman in jeggings sits

Her frozen fast food belly

Hanging over her crutch.

A grey frizzy bob sits

Tapping a phone, either texting

Reading or surfing Tinder, I suppose.

I notice a black bow in electric blue hair

I want to know her name

And what her pin badge means.

But then there's a ring,

"The next stop is Churchill Square"

And i leave my daydreaming behind.

My Poetry: Their Names Will Not Erode With Time

This is a poem about war. 
Inspired after reading a biography of Winston Churchill: so it starts in World War 1 

Time will not erode the names
Of ordinary men, who died
So brothers and mothers
Left on mourning beaches
Could live ordinary lives.
Bravery sparked in the pits 
Of their starving bellies
Meeting hate with defiance,
Till puncture wounds
Bloomed like poppies on soiled kit. 
Rivers of blood running 
From bodies of fathers and sons
Like veins through the mud.
Death trenches lit-up like beacons
But lessons learnt by the many
Were soon forgotten by the few.

Their Carved granite names
Will not erode with time,
Just as the saltwater, long dried,
On unmarked graves
Never diluted their memory.
Lest we forget 
How sovereign fingers put to sword
Hateful doctrine of corrupt regime;
Lest we forget
Our boys who fought fire and brimstone 
With fists forged from fear;
Lest we forget
Sacrifices made for mankind
Are made by the meek,
Forced into bravery by battles
Waged by masters of war.

Their names will not erode with time
But how they must turn
In crumbling graves
To see a country’s finest hour
Destroyed by the next.
To see Eton criminals sipping port
In green leather war rooms
Sacrificing lives to feed egotism
Like pawns on a chequers board.
Nothing learnt, no hushing
Of gunfire or death's lonely peal,
The metronomic rhythm of mortality
Still rings like funeral bells,
Feeding fatcats thirst for more
Land, more money, more power
But they pay no heed or toll 
Greed not tempered
By their sons blood spilled
By foreign hands… 
Their names left to erode with time.