December 9, 2019

Wood transforms itself under my touch

Whether it be hard olive or mountain pine,

Something I never questioned much,

Belonging to a carpenter’s long line.

I love the scent, the texture and the grain

Revealed by my steady and knowing hand

As I make things both elegant and plai...

October 4, 2019

He thinks of himself as ventriloquist

Finding the voice behind my metal stare.

But it’s true to say he may well have missed

The point of me on horseback in City Square.

This is what he does, takes on the world he sees

In sonnets, obsessed with fourteen lines and rhyme,


June 4, 2019

An amazing morning in almost May

Too early for the woodpecker to tap,

Soft, green leaves wave in honour of the day,

I slow down, breathe in, and then I stop.

These few acres hold a world within

Their old walls, graffitied railway fence,

They care for lungs where city air is...

May 9, 2019

Walking home after a shower of rain

Drops still fall from a fresh-dressed chestnut tree,

Below the paving stones glow and shine

Reflecting each candle blossom to me.

The city spring season, I smell its green,

See harts tongue clinging to the granite wall,

Seven decades of it...

April 10, 2019

This is not Headingley. We’re both on bikes,

The Hudson on our right and skyscrapers on our left,

Aiming for Central Park, no gears, no brakes,

Just fixed wheels turning, bobble hats aloft. 

And I am cycling through all my years

Each one as sharp as the March sun for me


January 5, 2019

Written over twenty years ago and appearing in ‘Almost Home’ and ‘Deadly Sensitive’ this poem seems to prefigure some of my recent sonnet-making.  It’s about Spring but it is also about new beginnings so it feels appropriate for the beginning of a new year.

The morning...

December 1, 2018

I’m seen less often in these modern times

Of email, Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram.

I used to fly down to this world in dreams;

Perhaps you’d just dismiss me now as spam.

But I still bring the most glorious of news

And speak of great hope and joy to come.

I stand behind you i...

September 3, 2018

Summer bastes me like a free-range chicken

With her wine and oil, and her lemon juice,

She throws in herbs fresh from her chopping,

I turn from white to brown; she cooks my goose.

As I come to full flavour so does she

Her plump arms freckled in the evening sun,

Still working...

August 6, 2018

When I smell the crushed grass, green on my skin,

I am lost in the long-forgotten scent

Of childhood summers, and remember then,

Another self. I wonder where he went,

Boy in baggy khaki hand-me-down shorts,

The snake-buckle belt, grey socks at half-mast,

The wanderer of the...

April 6, 2018

We’re ready for our journey through the night,

To take a lighted carriage into dark,

And return at pigeons’ coo, our city lark,

When pavements gleam with dew in early light.

We sit, chatter while we ready for flight, 

Air heavy with kitchen flowers, and the talk

Of shared, p...

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© 2018 James Morgan Nash - Writer and Poet - Leeds, West Yorkshire, United Kingdom - 

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