Another point scoring day

with a little surprise

A question asked…and answered

which in turn lead to the title of this song


Another point scoring day

and no surprise

you got it again.

You got it again

you got it again

you got it again




A Watkins Nov. ’17

From Beyond The Grave

Instead of, replacing, substitute

great lines of mere words in order.

Great men, musicians, playwrights, novelists

stealing my future from their graves

Stalling me in my tracks for style

Mocking my attempts at verse

Without batting an eye for a plagiarist

who ‘quotes’ them in inverted commas

borrowing from their fame and efforts

neither trialled or gaoled or censured.

Unapologetically me this time, I must be.

Lining the silks of my own coffin, with words

that will last a million years much longer

then a mere hundred or so and be catapulted

into space to represent the human race…

I don’t know how it will be yet and then I

will be gone. Next 2 me in Westminster

Abbey, you may have sat and wept for this

and for that placing your cup on my tomb

and leaving it there for the cleaners to remove.

Nevermind me, turn me into a literary tragedy

before I am born again. Let the fan who made the

pilgrimage to see me weep at your unthinking

actions. Fear not they will not strike you, but god might.

And remember ‘Don’t plagiarise me!’

A Watkins Nov. ’17

Oh, We can plainly

see. That is me and me and me. That you are a fully grown Boy.

Clumsily Adept, skillyfuly inept, artyfully kept

I am grown, boy.

Taking care of myself, being like a little elf, sometimes on task

other times at the end of a branch; hanging in motion, listening for the commotion.

I am grown, boy.

Six foot tall and a hundred pounds the undisputed King of what can I say. Belly and breast man for the rest of his days?

Exercising his right to exercise on a daily basis by eating chocolate in activity osmosis. Well, every fit person eats chocolate, right? Ooer, that’s logic, I learnt that reading a book because I’m a bit grown-up right?

I am grown, boy.

Clothes that squeak fit. Shoes that move me. Did you like that play on words there Move me like feet? Geddit? By the foot? Oh, I give up.

I am grown, boy

With internet account. And a bill which I pay every month. Duh! Someone’s listening in but I don’t care. You can find them kind everywhere.

I am grown, boy.

I have dead relatives some of which I called a friend. And without them my life I do have to mend.

I am grown, boy

With an independent spirit. I choose my own rhyme and reason and go through with it.

I am grown, boy

I choose where to go. Tomorrow I will go … Insert destination there. This poem has lost its way but that’s OK because I have grown boy and have the power to right my wrongs and sing my own song of freedom, loss, wanting and hoping playfully joking that’s it’s OK because I am grown, boy.

I am grown, boy.

I have groaned and been blessed I have touched a girls chest. I have found mystery in solidarity and aggression in charm, freedom in chains and calm in alarms. I am grown, boy.

Documents, and digital signatures, contracts and solicitors, driving test and contract hire I have been through the mire of society and what can be and found it wanting. Oh, what was the point? Now I am grown. I can sing on my own and make words into sentences bless Him

I am a grown, boy.


A Watkins Nov. 2017


So I want to be

Ted Hughes


With a degree

in ancient language and philosophy

And A Wife

Named Sylvia


Carol Anne Duffy

Energy Drinks have come

and their work had done

Lollipop girl, Andrew Motion,

This other world, silly described

Down South, in London like all you need do is to pay the fare and you can be one too.

They sell beer on trains but I have never been to a party on a train.

Parties bring one to a state of stupor when the mind needs something fair go gaze upon to bring you back from the brink.

This is my poem, Something To See.


White walls, decorated just so

with all a growing boy needs or nipples and crosses

depending on your view.

And darting in and about a new boy not 13 years old

Without a care in the world.

Fast forward until the change

Faa-aaa-r Cry. Not the game but life lives many.

Somehow you made it through to another white wall.

And even today there is white in my room

Empty bottle, whiskey stare and music to play

And I see you there at Last. There on the wall. Something to see.


Think about that ting and sit and type and think as you write it what is there why how when why style invents style?

pause. rest.

carry on.

A. Watkins Nov. 2017