Black Eyed Dog - Nick Drake

Black eyed dog
he called at my door
The black eyed dog
he called for more

A black eyed dog he knew my name
A black eyed dog he knew my name
A black eyed dog
A black eyed dog

I'm growing old and I wanna go home,
I'm growing old and I don't wanna know
I'm growing old and I wanna go home

A black eyed he called at my door
A black eyed he called for more

Why write at all?

Why write when you can paint?
Why write when you can sing?
Why write when you can dance?
Why write when the world
is full of such beauty
that it can never be tamed or turned
into lines worth repeating?

Why write about the horrors?
Why write about the wonders?
Why write about the magnificence?
Why write about black holes,
supernovas and invisible celestial forces
when the near and far is beyond
capture, beyond control?

Why write about politics?
Why write about greed?
Why write about corruption?
Why write about deceit
when empires are imploding
not half a mile from here and the
cheers and applause can be heard
from here to the sun?

The last of the great british traitors

My latest collection of poetry is now available from www.soulbaypress.com and or all the usual outlets...

Following on from ‘Scratched in the stars, sprawled on the sand’, Franks has produced another forceful collection of “blurred memories, long lists, gentle verse and raw observations”.

In ‘The Last of the Great British Traitors’ poems clash and merge throughout as the freshness of the sea at dawn mingles with the stale smoke of terminus bars. The fixed shadow of death hovers alongside memories of distant lovers and the perils of parking penguins is revealed together with the revenge of a reincarnated Sussex revolutionary lurking in the hedgerows. The clarity of betrayal combines with the shock of loss to paint a picture of a world where love still wins over everything else.

But it is a close run thing!

During the London riots only the bookshops were left untouched...