Here's a selection of my poems, something I plan to expand over time.  A few have been published in online journals, and I've included the relevant links.

A Poet's Place Is In The Kitchen was written as a lighthearted attempt to describe the way I go about writing.  Years later, nothing has changed.

The Photograph is a bit of autobiography.  I'm a wheelchair user as a result of a spinal injury, and this was one attempt to encapsulate a part of the experience. 

After My Throat Was Cut with All Due Care is a darker effort, on my experience in hospital. It goes well with my one and only attempt at the villanelle, Still Life.

With All Good Wishes For a Slow Decline is an old-fashioned poetic curse.  Again, it has some basis in experience.

Insomnia is just the thing to read on one of those sleepless nights…

An Elegy on Probability is a cheerful piece about drug use among young people, and Intersection is an equally happy evocation of drunk driving in the same age group.

The Designer of Games was written at the height of the war in Iraq. I was not a fan.

The Enemy Comes to the Gates Bearing Fire describes the disastrous bushfires that destroyed over 400 homes in Canberra in 2003.

When We Really Met and Some Things Are Hard to Say are love poems addressed to my wonderful wife of over 40 years.

I've tried my hand at a couple of sonnets, one light-hearted and the other definitely not.

Sky-Fishing is about one of my favourite pursuits in years past.

Funeral for a Lady was inspired by J.M.W. Turner's painting The Fighting Temeraire

The Creative Chemist is an account of my first couple of years at university, when I foolishly aspired to become a research chemist.  BIG mistake...

First Night is a mildly erotic take on a musical performance.

Girl in a Park is about a child at play.

Riding on a Swing is about playing in a trad jazz band, a very long time ago.

The Twenty-Five Year Backyard Blitz is an epic tale about my dad.  It's almost true.

Sir Bedivere's Last Battle is based on Thomas Malory.  What I didn't know at the time I wrote it was that an obscure English poet called Tennyson had got there first.

Knut Hallgrimson the Black Visits Essex comes from a previous life as a Viking.  Not a particularly nice one, either.

I've written more than my share of frivolous verse.  Here is a sample of the more tasteful stuff, and, strictly for the broad-minded, here is some that tends to be downright vulgar (you have been warned).