Who the Hell is a “Morning Person”?

Who the hell is a “morning person”?
Is it a trait passed down the line
through the genes?
They who wake up,
look fresh,

A character from folklore,
caught up –
bound in the bedclothes,
struggling free.
My eyes hurt by the light,
can’t read the time,
don’t know if I’m late or early.

Sway into walls
take rest against door frames,
battle my way to the bathroom –
an epic journey.

Stumble down the stairs.
Hate, that I didn’t clean the coffee pot
the day before.
Wash, rinse, prepare.
Stand and wait.

As soon as the caffeine hits,
life begins to slowly seep back.
A treatment of the symptom,
but not the cause.
Could I change?

What would I have to do
to become a “morning person”,
rather than the “morning person
from Hell”
I am.

Barefoot in Church

Is it a strange urge
to go barefoot in church?
Although broadly ignorant of customs,
I know it’s okay in some places.
In some religions it might be a condition
of entry, for a place of worship.

But I’m not sure,
as I say, a lack of education
and of a will to research now
to know, leaves me in the dark.

if stumbled upon and seen,
will I be challenged,
forcibly ejected?

“And why mister?
Why’d you want to go barefoot
in church, in the first place?”
it’s a sensory thing
is all I can think, in answer
to this particular question.

In the usual manner
entering a church –
shoes and socks firmly in place.
I kind of absorb something
of the atmosphere inside,
and this generates feelings inside of me.

“Well what kind of feelings are those, weirdo?”
I don’t know.

Feelings of calm and peace?
There is beauty in the construction
and decoration,
I touch a wall,
feel the stonework.
Admire artwork,
consider inscriptions.
Enjoy the

Even in a small church,
there is a lot of empty space around me.

Anyway, so I did it.
I found a church.
Empty, yet with it’s main door wide open,
which felt symbolic for the matter at hand.

No one inside.
With antenna fine tuned,
able to hear the advance warning of
somebody approaching from the outside.
I felt safe.

Shoes and socks slipped off with ease.
Socks in my pockets (ankle socks)
Shoes, on the floor, near my shoulder-bag.

I walked down the central aisle.
I walked into the chancel.
I walked up to the high altar.
I stood and considered,
Reviewed all sensations.

Back to the nave, more wanderings,
then sat.
Felt confident.

And also more connected to the experience
than ever before.

Although, would I like it
if everyone walked barefoot
in church?

The Oxford Wardrobe Murders

Before his recent near-death and out of body experience, Gregor had come to accept the slow, vegetating state of his mind. Possessing a lack of enthusiasm akin to a sedated zombie, he’d existed in a constant state of resignation, procrastination and guilt. But now, recognising a second chance granted, Gregor has learnt to embrace opportunities, to say ‘yes’ to propositions – and see what turns out.
This morning, the telephone acts as a portal to an adventure, with Gregor finding himself transformed into Detective Constable Samson, reporting for duty with the Oxford Thamesland Police force.

Her (flash-fiction)

“Look!” Janine says, “I’m sure it’s her.” Maria glances across the café over the heads of the seated and towards those seeking free tables, trays balanced in their hands. “I wonder what she’s doing in here.”
“Who? Where are you looking,” inconspicuously, Maria scans each female face, “who am I supposed to recognise?”
“Over there – she’s got her back to us now.”
“All I see are people getting breakfast and coffee.”
“Wait, you’ll see who I mean when she turns around.”

Poems of Sorts

This collection draws together poetry written between the fall of 2017 to summer 2019, reflecting upon the unique qualities of life and relationships, observed through an ordinary eye. The author says, “Within these words are themes anyone can connect with, be this from a simple desire to, a personal experience, misfortune or something they once overheard.”

Available for purchase as an ebook, at Amazon.