I will rhyme for money.

Or charity. But money pays better.

Wedding or retirement, birthday or funeral, engagement or anniversary, baby or Valentine, get well soon or christening, celebration or farewell – maybe you want a poem. Maybe one by me.

What I try to do is take your words and feelings, and the particular circumstances of your life or situation, and fashion that into a poem. Which I guess is the way I go about all my writing. If you’re interested, please contact me.

Below is a poem I wrote for a wedding. Don’t want to show off, but they’re still together.

22.9.2007
Love creeps, it roars, it sings, it wounds, it dances. Sometimes it smokes, or whines, or blames; love leaves the seat up.

Love surprises and delights, in morning gloom and late at night. Coffee-lazy Sundays with the papers on the bed, and plucking out the grey hairs from your love’s beloved head.
Love gets ill and love gets tired, and love can be unfair.
Love doesn’t do the shopping. At times, love doesn’t care.
Love’s armpits – not all roses. Love’s breath – sometimes poo.
And love can get quite moody, between love, me and you.

Love comes home drunk and snory.
Love picks its feet. Love’s Tory.
Love cut his hand on a Christmas tree,
Love eats his love’s confectionery,
When it’s cold, love opens windows wide –
But, love shuts the doors when it’s hot outside.
Love’s late. Love’s late. She’s great, but late.
She’s making lists so love has to wait.
Love makes love iron her creases,
Love’s roast duck burns in pieces.
Love hates it in McDonalds when love’s waiting for new chips
Only fresh French-fries can ever pass those loving gourmet lips.
But if you wait for love’s potatoes
You’ll go way past girlfriend status.

Let’s fill up that memory-box:
Fifty of years of muddling through the galaxies.
Dance on the ceiling with me, Mrs Bob.
Mow a thousand lawns – sake-soaked, sushi-stuffed.
Ten million lilies, I’ll tickle your back for each one.

I will play tennis with you badly.
I will watch Antiques Roadshow every week. I will watch them play live.
I will sell my bike.
I will tremble at your scary pumpkin face, and toast the seeds.
I will buy the biggest tree, and your hair will twizzle and bounce in my dreams.

Love needs a sense of humour, and sometimes has one too –
I tell you, love, love needs it when it’s faced with me and you.
Cos I can be a knobber, and you can be a cow
But love’ll get us through it, love, just let it tell us how:
Love me when I’m rubbish, and love me when I’m crap
Love me when you’re feeling keen and I just want a nap.
When you fall, I’ll lift you, so please help me from the mud.
I know you will, you’re brilliant when I’m acting like a spud.

And springtimes pass, and Christmases, and autumns, and then springs.
Our future runs around us, as we sit remembering
The afternoon – years, years ago, when our future beckoned,
Two thousand and just seven, September twenty-second.
And back then, looking forward, and now, from sunset skies
I see summer, smiles and children when I look into your eyes.