A Logbook of Wonders



A Logbook of Wonders

What on earth does Philip write
Within his purple notebook, lined ?
What on earth does he record
When fascinated, moved or bored ?
What scribbles he both day and night ?
What wisdom gleaned ?  What knowledge mined ?
What does he with his pen engage
Upon the ruled and virgin page ?

What on earth does Philip cite ?
What theories turned ?  What views opined ?
Bless this ink that interweaves
The world and all between the leaves.
So happy he whose days are bright
With words to muse and thoughts to find –
Shining life, a jewellèd crown,
With endless things worth noting down.



One, Two, Bakerloo



One, Two, Bakerloo

Have you met Miss Jones ?
She’s a jet-blond, beige-eyed,
Sugar-gliding rising-tide –
Mapping out her zones
On the side.
She’s sharp-blinking, slow-drinking,
Silver, gold and copper-zincing;
Marrow in her bones –
Miss Jones.
She knows her diphthongs from her phones,
She knows her murmurs from her moans,
She knows her rods and cones,
Does Jones.

She’s a spark-plug head-drug,
Neither-one-nor-other shrug –
Calling in her loans
For a hug.
She’s sharp-chalking, slow-walking,
Fly-pitching, street-hawking –
Tuning-up the drones:
So Jones !

How best to describe her ?
You must just go out and learn –
Best not to entribe her,
But to vibe her and imbibe her –
You’ll know her when you jibe her,
Come your turn.

Have you met Miss Jones ?
She’s a one-take earthquake,
Dreamy girl who’s wide awake
Raisoning her scones
On the make.
She’s sharp-booking, slow-cooking,
Never where the rest are looking –
Ev’ryone condones
Miss Jones.
She knows her supines from her prones,
She knows her growlings from her groans,
She knows her Wrens and Soanes,
Does Jones.

She’s a snake-hiss l’il sis,
Turning blisters into bliss,
Trading all she owns
For a kiss.
She’s sharp-rooting, slow-booting,
Always with her head computing –
Wits is what she hones:
So Jones !

How best to convey her ?
You must just go out and learn –
Best not to survey her,
But purvey her and array her;
You’ll know her when you play her,
Come your turn.

Have you met Miss Jones ?
She’s an odd-socks re-tox,
Big ring in a little box –
Sorting out the stones
From the rocks.
She’s sharp-sighing, slow crying,
Only-from-the-south applying;
Nobody postpones
Miss Jones.
She knows her witches from her crones,
She knows her yuppies from her Sloanes,
She knows her unbeknowns,
Does Jones.

She’s a tactile last-mile,
Drifting in and out of style –
She’s giving up her thrones
For a smile.
She’s sharp-nailing, slow-sailing,
Always with the wind prevailing –
Supercoiling clones:
So Jones !

How best to assess her ?
You must just go out and learn –
Best not second-bless her,
Or your guess’ll be the lesser –
You’ll know how to address her,
Come your turn.



Penwith Smith

The Minack Theatre


Penwith Smith

As I was heading to Saint Ives,
I passed a troupe with many lives,
With many plays and songs and dance,
As I was heading to Penzance.

As I was heading to Saint Just,
They played for me, as well they must,
And bid me “Come and join us, Friend !”
As I was heading to Land’s End.



This piece of nonsense was inspired by the famous nursery rhyme, even though that probably refers to a different St Ives (who’d have thought there’d be two saints named Ive ?)  The town in this poem is the Cornish seaside resort on the Penwith peninsula, which is also home to the Minack open-air theatre.




pewter tea set



Liza Eliza,
Daughter of a Kaiser –
Plumper than cuter,
Never was a miser.
Asks her advisor
To find her a suitor
Who won’t despise her
For eating off of pewter.

Liza Eliza
Master of disguiser –
Spying on her diners,
When they criticise her.
Better to be wiser,
Should they malign her,
Or they might surprise her
By eating off of china.



Jesus on a Davidson

jesus biker
Made For You & Me by Jeffrey


Jesus on a Davidson

Riding down Redemption Freeway,
Hair and beard flying free,
I swear I saw the Magic Man
Astride a Liberty.
A Saviour on a V-Twin,
In the Chapter of the Gods –
Where demons are the rockers,
And the angels are the mods.
Like Icarus’s Goldwing,
Or the Banshee’s throaty roar,
Or that bat right out of Ragnarok:
The Thunderbolt of Thor.
I swear I saw the Sunday Rider
Revving past the weekday suits
While tearing up Salvation Street
In goggles, gloves and boots.

A Little Lady of Letters

toys letters pay play
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com


A Little Lady of Letters

Milly Miller’s Mother
Asked her darling daughter dear
Not to speak such sentences
That echo ev’ry ear.
“With constant core concordance
And repeated repartee,
You really risk resentment,
Missy Miller Mystery.

Please, my pretty precious,
You must vary vocal voice –
Not focusing for phonics
So to chime your chosen choice.
Then lesser-learnèd listeners
Can make-out more you meant –
A little less allit’rative,
My mystic Millicent.”