poetry portfolio
Poetry has always been at the heart of my creative practice. Through poems, spoken word and reflective writing, I explore themes of memory, identity, community, wellbeing and the everyday moments that connect us.
My writing often draws inspiration from lived experience, local places, conversations and observations that might otherwise pass unnoticed. I am interested in finding stories within ordinary life and giving voice to thoughts, feelings and experiences that resonate with others.
Here you will find a collection of poems, reflections and spoken word pieces from my ongoing creative journey.
ordinary somehow
Why I Wrote Ordinary, Somehow
Ordinary, somehow began as a response to the idea that ordinary lives are often overlooked. We celebrate major achievements, dramatic stories and extraordinary moments, but so much of what makes us who we are exists in the everyday details: conversations over garden fences, familiar faces in local shops, community events, family traditions and the small routines that shape our lives.
Living with chronic illness has changed how I see the world. After periods of illness, hospital appointments, uncertainty and recovery, I found myself paying closer attention to the quieter moments around me. I began to notice the humour, resilience, warmth and individuality that exist within ordinary communities. These small moments often carry as much meaning as the events we are told are important.
The poems in this collection are inspired by the people, places and experiences that make up everyday life in Derby and beyond. They celebrate local characters, neighbours, family members, community spaces and the shared experiences that connect us. Many of the poems explore how identity is shaped not only by significant events but also by the repeated rituals, habits and conversations that become part of our personal histories.
The title Ordinary, Somehow reflects a question at the heart of the collection: what does it really mean to be ordinary? The people in these poems may appear ordinary at first glance, yet each carries a unique story, a history, a sense of humour, a loss, a hope or a struggle. The collection argues that there is no such thing as an ordinary life. Every person contains extraordinary experiences hidden beneath the surface.
Ultimately, Ordinary, Somehow is a celebration of everyday humanity. It is a collection about belonging, community, memory, ageing, love, resilience and finding beauty in the familiar. These poems invite readers to pause, look more closely and recognise the value of the lives unfolding around them every day.
WHERE ARE YOU, NAKED ORCHID MAN OF #83?
I miss you, oddly.
I miss the way you took in my Amazon parcels, already waiting at the door,
muttering about the cars, too fast again,
the traffic building, the blockages outside.
You spoke about the road like it belonged to you,
like speeding hatchbacks and poor parking
were personal insults sent for your attention.
I miss the way you unapologetically never wore clothes on the top half of your body,
how you’d scratch your arse, completely unbothered,
like shame was something invented for other people.
I miss saying to my wife, “Have you seen Naked Orchid Man today?”
As if you were some strange neighbourhood celebrity,
part-folklore, part-traffic-warden, part-accidental-icon.
You always had orchids in the windows: fresh, blooming, proud somehow.
Every week, they appeared again, quietly thriving,
bright against the ordinary dullness of the street,
and there you’d be behind them, stretching your arms to greet the morning,
blossoming in your own strange way, man and flower somehow making perfect sense.
Where have you gone, Naked Orchid Man of #83?
Your grumpy, arse-itching, don’t-give-a-fuck demeanour always resonated with me.
Clothes or no clothes, you seemed completely yourself,
authentically stubborn, the sort of person who never edited himself.
You were neighbourhood watch without officially being neighbourhood watch.
Your cameras were pointed in every direction, watching everything:
traffic, strangers, suspicious vans, the rhythm of the road.
There was comfort in knowing you were there somehow,
constant, shirtless, irritated, dependable, orchids glowing quietly behind you.
Now, there’s no Naked Orchid Man. Just a strange lingering uneasiness.
I walk past, sigh a little, glance at the window, expecting movement that never comes.
The orchids still appear: fresh, carefully cared-for.
Your wife places them there each week, I imagine,
with the same devotion she once gave to you,
loving your stubbornness, your bare chest, your refusal—absolute refusal
—to wear a shirt under any circumstances, weather be damned.
Jon, I think your name was.
I miss you.
THE WOMAN AT THE PHARMACY
She always says,
“Aup me, duck.”
Like we’ve known each other
for years.
Like I haven’t just arrived,
slightly stressed,
holding a prescription
and my last remaining nerve.
The pharmacy
is its own strange ecosystem,
a place where time stops,
chairs wobble,
and everyone collectively agrees
waiting
is now our personality.
You take a ticket.
You sit.
You stare at vitamins
you’ll never buy.
Someone coughs.
Someone sighs.
Someone asks,
again,
“How much longer?”
As though the woman behind the counter
personally invented delays
for her own entertainment.
And then there’s her,
always there,
hair tied back,
reading glasses halfway down her nose,
mildly stressed
but strangely reassuring,
looking at prescriptions
like they’ve offended her.
Yet, somehow,
despite the chaos,
she remembers.
“Still on the same tablets, lovey?”
“You managing alright?”
“Doctor sorted that referral yet?”
Which feels,
if I’m honest,
far too intimate
to be said somewhere next to haemorrhoid cream,
because somewhere along the line,
without your permission,
you become known.
Not famous,
not important,
just…
recognised.
A regular.
A person attached
to repeat prescriptions,
awkward life updates,
and the occasional tired smile.
There’s something oddly comforting
about being remembered
by someone
earning nowhere near enough money.
She hands over the bag,
looks up,
smiles.
“Tek care, lovey.”
And for a second,
between fluorescent lights,
cardboard boxes,
over-packaged vitamins,
and quiet exhaustion,
I almost believe
I will.
THE WOMEN'S INSTITUTE
Date: Tuesday evening
Location: community hall
Present: mostly older ladies, one confused thirty-five-year-old lesbian
Apologies: Linda, for being wrong
1. Membership Eligibility
Linda said I couldn’t go.
Not directly,
not in a dramatic, soap-opera sort of way.
Just casually,
with the confidence of a woman
who has organised raffle tickets since 1987.
“It’s mostly older ladies, duck,” she said,
as though I’d combust upon entry,
as though being thirty-five, lesbian, and vaguely alternative
might somehow upset the Victoria sponge ecosystem.
Naturally, I went,
out of spite, mostly.
And out of curiosity.
And because nothing motivates me quite like being told
I probably shouldn’t.
2. Arrival and Initial Observations
The hall smelled faintly of tea, cardigans, furniture polish,
and women who know where the emergency biscuits are kept.
Everyone looked approximately sixty or seventy,
give or take a hip replacement.
And there I was:
slightly anxious, trying to look casual,
while giving the distinct impression
of someone who had accidentally wandered into
the wrong community centre,
who was now too polite to leave.
3. Matters Arising
They stared politely,
with the kind of polite stare older women do,
smiling while visibly trying to work out
who you belong to.
Whose daughter is she?
Does she work here?
Is she lost?
Why is her hair like that?
No formal conclusion was reached.
4. Primary Business
Then came the beetle drive,
which, apparently,
everyone else understood but me.
No explanation was offered,
just rules spoken quickly through mild enthusiasm,
as though beetle-based gambling was common knowledge.
Dice rolled.
Pencils scratched.
Women in floral blouses became suddenly, violently competitive.
Mavis, eighty-two perhaps, was absolutely ruthless.
No mercy.
No prisoners.
No concern whatsoever for my emotional wellbeing.
People shouted things like,
“YOU’VE DONE THE BODY BEFORE THE LEGS!”
with the urgency of a medical emergency.
5. Refreshments
Tea appeared.
Biscuits circulated.
Someone called me “love.”
Nobody asked awkward questions.
Nobody seemed bothered that I was gay,
younger, or obviously sticking out like a sore thumb
in a room full of women who were masters at the art
of bringing exact change.
6. Outcome
Turns out, the Women’s Institute
is mostly just made up of women
wanting a chat,
a game,
a biscuit,
and somewhere to be on a Tuesday evening.
Linda was wrong,
though I suspect she’ll never admit it.
Somewhere between the beetles,
the tea,
and Mavis destroying my confidence one dice roll at a time,
I found myself weirdly happy.
COMMUNITY ASSOCIATION
Role: volunteer
Location: local hall
Hours: unclear
Salary: tea, biscuits, and mild panic
Essential criteria: willingness to help
Desirable attributes: functioning knees, access to Canva, basic chair-lifting ability
For the continued survival of the Community Association,
volunteers are needed.
No previous experience is required.
Ability to lift chairs without making a noise as you’re standing back up
would be helpful but is not essential.
Applicants may be asked to:
unlock the hall,
organise raffles,
locate spare keys,
complain about gutters,
make tea in large quantities,
and pretend to understand where the trestle tables are kept.
Basic knowledge of Canva will be treated as evidence of witchcraft.
My wife joined first:
Rae,
armed with goodwill,
patience,
and the rare technological power to make a flyer without crying.
Everyone there seemed to be somewhere between sixty and eighty-seven.
They were the loveliest bunch of people you could meet,
kind,
welcoming,
and quietly terrified.
Not of burglars,
not of rising prices,
though obviously both were discussed.
No, they were frightened of something much more practical:
What would happen when they all eventually died?
Who would run the raffle?
Who would unlock the hall?
Who would remember which cupboard held the extension leads?
Who would properly complain about the gutters?
“No younger people want to help anymore,” they said,
and by “younger,” they just mean anyone under sixty
with knees still operating within normal range.
Then, Justin joined too:
forty,
functioning hips,
able to bend down without needing ten business days to recover.
Together,
he and Rae became fresh blood.
People looked at them hopefully,
as though civilisation itself might continue after all.
At last,
people who could weed around the building,
carry chairs,
use email,
and understand that a poster does not have to be made in Microsoft WordArt.
When Rae made a Canva flyer,
you’d have thought she split the atom.
“That must have taken hours!”
Genuine amazement,
real admiration,
the kind of reaction usually reserved for medical breakthroughs.
And somehow,
without quite noticing,
we became involved too.
We went to the Christmas festivities,
stood outside in coats far too thin,
sang badly along with the local choir,
laughed far harder than expected.
There was tea,
mince pies,
someone’s husband complaining about parking,
children vaguely ignoring the activities,
and us,
standing there among people we suddenly recognised.
People who knew our names.
People who waved.
You may become a local person by accident.
You may learn where the spare keys live.
You may find yourself holding raffle tickets,
folding chairs,
or saying things like,
“Have we got enough milk?”
with genuine concern.
You may stop feeling quite so outside of things.
Somewhere between raffle tickets,
Canva miracles,
and slightly competitive pensioners,
we stopped feeling like visitors.
We became local people, doing local things.
Local, somehow.
Applications remain open,
especially from anyone who actually knows where the spare keys are.
CHURCH FÊTE TOMBOLA
I have developed an unhealthy attachment to church fête tombolas,
which is unfortunate because, objectively speaking, they are mostly terrible.
They always begin innocently enough.
I arrive, intending to support the local community,
maybe buy a cake,
maybe spend three pounds on raffle tickets for the church roof,
the scout hut, or some urgent village issue involving gutters.
Reasonable.
Adult.
Normal.
Then, I see the tombola table.
A suspicious bottle of shower gel.
Three miniature jams held together with elastic bands.
A dented tin of chicken casserole.
A mug with an aggressively cheerful slogan no one would willingly display.
And yet, despite knowing better,
I become invested.
Then, Doris arrives.
There is always a Doris.
Doris wins the scented candle,
Doris wins the expensive biscuits,
Doris wins the bottle of wine,
and Doris always acts surprised,
which frankly starts to feel insulting after a while.
Meanwhile,
I sit there, clutching losing tickets,
pretending not to care
while caring deeply.
Then, I see it—
the cinema voucher,
the holy grail—
placed at the front of the table like a personal challenge.
Suddenly,
this is not fundraising.
This is justice.
My wife gently suggests that I have bought enough tickets.
Sweet.
Naive,
but sweet.
The numbers are called.
Not me.
Still not me.
Definitely not me.
Someone wins a decorative soap set.
Someone else wins the cinema voucher.
Doris.
Of course.
Eventually,
after emotional exhaustion and mild financial ruin,
my number is called.
I stand,
victorious,
vindicated.
And what awaits me?
A quarter-used Imperial Leather gift set.
The dented tin of chicken casserole.
Something labelled “Luxury Pickled Selection,”
which feels less like a prize and more like an administrative error.
I smile politely and say thank you
because this is Britain
and disappointment must always be handled with manners.
But next summer,
despite Doris,
despite the casserole,
despite the financial recklessness,
I know exactly what I’ll do.
I’ll buy another strip,
maybe two,
just in case.
Because one year,
that cinema voucher
will be mine.
ODE TO BIRDS BAKERY
There are bakeries,
and then there is Birds,
which, if you’re from Derby,
requires absolutely no explanation,
no dramatic introduction,
no influencer campaign,
no exposed brickwork,
no £5 sourdough served by someone called Felix
with a moustache and strong opinions about fermentation.
“I’m popping Birds”
is understood immediately.
Birds is not simply a bakery.
Birds is culture.
Community.
Identity.
Birds is Derby people standing politely in queues at 8:13 a.m.,
already knowing their order,
already mildly annoyed by anyone taking too long.
Derby people love routine and pastry,
especially pastry.
No risks.
No nonsense.
No unnecessary flavours.
You’ll not catch Sandra from Littleover asking for pistachio foam.
We are simple people.
We know what works,
and what works
is beige food
wrapped in paper.
I am, for better or worse, a lifelong Birder,
raised on soft white cobs,
pasties hot enough to remove the roof of your mouth,
sausage rolls with actual structural integrity,
and sandwiches wrapped so tightly they feel faintly aggressive,
like they’re annoyed you ordered them.
But above all, the holy grail:
the sausage cob,
with stuffing
and apple sauce.
It’s a combination so deeply beige
it sounds medically concerning,
and yet, it works,
magnificently.
Soft white cob,
the kind that collapses immediately,
leaving flour everywhere except where it would actually help.
Sausage, thick,
questionable in shape,
heroic in spirit.
Stuffing,
slightly dry,
somehow comforting.
Apple sauce arriving unexpectedly,
like emotional support in condiment form.
Together, perfection.
An edible Derbyshire handshake.
And then,
the elephant feet
which, if you’re not from Derby,
sound threatening.
My Canadian wife, understandably confused, asked,
“Why are they called elephant feet?”
A fair question,
one I cannot answer.
Some things simply belong to Derby,
like saying “Ay up,”
complaining about traffic on the ring road,
or quietly judging people who say they prefer Greggs.
Now, for transparency, I do like Greggs.
I’m not unreasonable.
A steak bake? Necessary at times.
For emergency circumstances.
Travel food.
But loyalty belongs to Birds.
Greggs is convenience;
Birds is commitment.
Birds is your nan bringing cobs to family gatherings.
Birds is builders ordering breakfast at 7:06 a.m.,
teachers surviving entirely on caffeine and carbohydrates,
retired couples discussing weather over sandwiches at 11:07 a.m.,
as though nowhere else exists.
It smells like warmth,
pastry,
routine,
the kind of place where Derby people queue quietly,
say thank you,
and leave carrying enough carbohydrates to survive the day.
And honestly,
if Birds ever disappears,
I fear Derby itself
might collapse.
Like dominoes,
like street parking arguments,
like me
after three days
without a sausage cob.
STREET PARKING
The cars sit nose to tail,
lined like dominoes,
somehow delicate,
one bad decision from collapse.
One badly-judged reverse.
One husband saying,
“You’ve got loads of room.”
You do not have loads of room.
This street was not built for modern life:
too many cars,
not enough driveways, and
everyone pretending the space outside their house
isn’t technically theirs,
while quietly believing it is.
There’s an unspoken system.
#12 likes that spot.
Dave from across the road parks half on the kerb,
like rules are simply suggestions.
The silver Nissan hasn’t moved since Easter.
Nobody mentions it, yet everyone notices.
Curtains twitch.
Slow glances.
Passive-aggressive parking jobs are analysed like crime scenes:
too close,
too wonky,
too far over.
Whoever parked there clearly hates community.
Then comes the real drama of
someone unfamiliar
parked
outside somebody else’s house.
A stranger
on our street,
Facebook status pending.
“Can the owner of…”
Always beginning politely,
never ending politely.
And heaven forbid, someone saves a space.
A traffic cone appears.
Suddenly, the road becomes less public highway,
more medieval territory dispute.
There are rules here,
invisible rules,
the sort nobody explains
until you accidentally break them.
And in the evening,
the cars return
to line the street again,
patient,
delicate,
waiting.
Dominoes.
One beeped horn,
one badly timed argument,
one questionable parallel park
away from total collapse.
rhyme & resistance
WHISPERS IN THE ECHO CHAMBER
Truth once stood with steady feet,
now slips between the screen and street.
It bends beneath the breaking news,
reshaped by clicks, reshared as views.
Democracy, tired and thin,
waits while the arguments begin.
Each voice becomes a sharpened stone,
thrown from a bedroom, cold, alone.
Big Tech smiles with polished grace,
while selling every private space.
A double-edged and glowing sword,
we worship what we can’t afford.
The powerful speak. The people scroll.
The algorithm eats us whole.
Yet somewhere past the noise and sprawl,
truth still tries to reach us all.
So let the static rise and fall.
Let truth’s small beacon guide us all.
everyday, everywhere
SMALL THINGS
Yesterday,
I found a pound coin
in a coat pocket.
Its scratched silver rim
caught the kitchen light
as I turned it between my fingers.
Not enough
to change my life.
Just enough
to make me feel
chosen.
I carried it all day,
its cool weight
against my palm,
a quiet talisman.
Strange.
How happiness arrives
in such a small disguise.
Like a dog dropping a damp tennis ball
at your feet,
mud flecking your shoes,
tail drumming the grass.
Like a stripe of amber sunlight
threading through a split fence board,
warming the splintered arm of a paint-peeled garden chair
left tilted beneath an overgrown rosebush.
Like a forgotten pound coin
wedged behind a torn seam,
nestled among lint and old bus-ticket fibres,
waiting
for the exact hand that would find it.
every room has a mouth
THE PUBLIC MOUTH: THE ARTICLE
Write it clean.
Write it sharp.
Write it as if truth
were a pencil
snapped in somebody else's sleep.
A to Z,
the alphabet rolls
from tongue
to tongue.
Hiss.
Tiptoe.
Tap.
By breakfast,
it is rumour.
By lunch,
it has legs.
By night,
it has learned
how to knock.
Spit it out
or swallow it whole:
the lie,
the half-lie,
the almost-truth
passed hand to hand
until nobody remembers
whose mouth it first escaped.
Fact or fiction?
The question sits
like a thorn
under the foot.
Read it once.
Read it again.
Watch the paper
begin to bleed.
Print my handprint,
not my finger.
Never the finger.
Never point it
across the room
and call it justice.
I do not tiptoe
through other people's business.
I only listen.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
A tip-off.
A door left open.
A sentence overheard
through a wall.
Pass it on.
Pass it on.
I do not care
if the whole house catches.
When the ash settles,
no one can prove
which old man
struck the match.
A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE BIRD EVENTS
I thought I was having
a wholesome day out
feeding a hyacinth macaw.
Then the blue criminal
landed on my shoulder
and decided my hat
was legally his.
He didn’t ask.
He didn’t negotiate.
He just grabbed it
like a feathered little bailiff
with unresolved issues.
I stood there
holding peanuts,
a paper bag,
and the last scraps
of my dignity.
My wife watched.
Did she help?
No.
She photographed
the entire attack
like David Attenborough
with betrayal issues.
By the end,
I had lost my hat,
my hairstyle,
and all public authority.
The macaw looked proud.
My wife looked delighted.
And I looked like someone
who had just been mugged
by a tropical toddler
with wings.
WERM LIFE
I stumbled across an artist’s post
by Wednesday’s Child,
accident,
the way you find most important
things online —
not searching,
not prepared,
just scrolling like a tired Victorian child
with a phone.
And there it was:
a painting
with a cute little worm on it.
Except she didn’t call it a worm.
She called it a werm.
And honestly,
that was it.
That was the moment.
Something shifted in the soil.
Now I can’t stop saying it.
Werm.
Werm while making tea.
Werm while walking through the kitchen.
Werm while my wife is trying to live
a peaceful, adult life.
“Look,” I say,
holding up a scrap of card,
“it’s Willy the Werm.”
She looks at me
with the tired patience
of someone who once married a woman
and has since inherited
a full-time nonsense department.
But Willy has a face.
Willy has stripes.
Willy has range.
And suddenly there isn’t just one worm.
There is a collection.
A movement.
A damp little empire.
Then suddenly
you are walking round your house
like a prophet of nonsense
saying:
There’s Claudia Winklewerm,
all fringe and eyeliner,
strictly squirming through
the compost.
There’s Bob Worminator
from The Traitors,
hood up, glasses on,
looking suspicious in a
very small cloak.
There’s Taylor Squirm,
writing ten-minute heartbreak songs
about a garden fork.
Harry Slithers,
in a feather boa,
emotionally available
but only under moist conditions.
David Attenburrow,
whispering,
“Here we see the common werm
in its natural habitat:
the back of Emily’s brain.”
Gordon Ram-squirm,
furious in a chef hat,
shouting,
“This soil is RAW.”
Mary Burrowy,
gentle and powerful,
holding a Victoria sponge
like a national treasure.
Paul Hollywerm,
offering the handshake
no invertebrate was
prepared for.
Lady Werm-Werm,
in sunglasses too large
for her actual body.
Beyoncé Wermoncé,
lit from within,
somehow wind-machine ready
despite having no hair.
Werm life.
Werm life.
Werm life.
Snoop Werm,
laid-back,
tiny chain,
absolutely no urgency.
Adele the Eel-Werm,
winged eyeliner,
big feelings,
one devastating chorus
about a plant pot.
Louis Thewerm,
standing awkwardly in the corner
asking gentle questions
about underground culture.
Nigella Lawsworm,
sensually sprinkling compost
onto something expensive.
Dolly Burrowton,
big hair, bigger heart,
nine-to-five but make it
subterranean.
I have created names
for werms who do not exist.
I have imagined accessories:
tiny microphones,
tiny capes,
tiny sunglasses,
a tiny red carpet,
a tiny emotional support leaf.
I have said,
“No, listen, this one needs a bob,”
as if that explains anything.
I have considered
whether a worm can wear lipstick.
I have decided yes.
I have looked at my own hand-drawn card
and felt, with alarming sincerity,
that Willy the Werm
has potential.
This is how it starts.
One cute painting.
One wrong little spelling.
One soft pink line
with a silly face.
And your wife is just there,
trying to make a coffee,
while you explain
that Claudia Winklewerm.