Our workshop at the SPRING! event on the 24th was such a great, exciting day with a staggering array of ideas, inspirations, and acts of poetry swirling around. It was great to meet so many new people in a room with such energy and creativity! I must thank my lovely, awesome superheroes for joining me for my first workshop, and my friend Bobba and everyone involved in bringing us together.

Now, to celebrate our success in creating and becoming superheroes, I have a limited number of copies of my book, Peter And The Hare’s Fireside Companion at the special SPRING! price of:

£5.00 + £1.00 postage



Click Buy Now to purchase a copy of “Peter And The Hare’s Fireside Companion” via PayPal.

Also available on Lulu

Amazon.com (US) and Amazon.co.uk (UK)

And also very occasionally available on eBay

More information about this, my first illustrated collection of poems and stories, can be found here.

I will package your order brilliantly and send it promptly.

This way one can avoid both the extortionate postage costs of Lulu and the inflated price of Amazon. You can pay securely via the trusted and widely used PayPal platform in a snap. PayPal, as you may know is the same payment method used on eBay and numerous popular on-line stores, so many of you will be already familiar with its use. What’s more, you don’t need an existing PayPal customer account to make a purchase.

I’ve sourced the books directly myself and you would be buying from me directly, through the PayPal platform. This may well become a permanent solution to make things cheaper and easier for my readers.

We had a few unforeseeable hiccups at my book stall at the event, so I hope this will make up for it, and that those of you who couldn’t purchase a copy at SPRING! and were hoping to, will be able to take advantage of the reduced price here.


book info sign - available at this special price where to get 2 weQuestions? Answers? Question Marks? Commas? Comments? Enquiries? Lights? Sounds? Emerging From Down A Well? What’s that, Lassie? What’s happening? Feel as free to contact me or not, if you would like to purchase a copy!

Contact form below

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You’ve an old stone
to discard,
from the tilting bridge,
within uncertain distance of
an English windmill.

A stone that rolled around a tinted bowl,
imitative of Art Nouveau,
with yellow and sun-blown glass,

and a planet,
foolishly in orbit,
a clockface with work

with the tick of a carriage’s two o’clock horses,
arriving down a cobbled path,
to rest
outside a lodging house
of pebbles and pulp.

You’ve a heart to regain
for your still life,
a dimming shade of pencil line,
that rasps for spirit, however it is made known,
or an industrial clause,
finite as a life;
punctuation not given to blinking.

The fruit still tells of
time in storage,
unable to wrinkle plastic peach skin
when the news that morning
ticks officiously along
the bottom of the Sanyo flat-screen.

Notes from the Dream-Confused Polar Bear, Oxford

Passing cars of different makes and colours
carrying rain from other islands

If I was to die
in the downpour of a well-loved red vintage car,
the tsunami of the 1965 Chevrolet
carrying us off the roof terrace
where we were watching an
antique parade

someone said,
crossing myself,
“you’re not coming away from this one”
I’m fine with this,
and do not expect to walk away but fly,

Or something the movies haven’t thought of yet.

Trees sit
passing each river to the ground,
parting curtains,
the sea-sky of straight unbroken lines,
into a million shot glasses
as an inadequate measurement, for the
annual precipitation
above a person’s
average head of soaking hair

the room that spoke,
the woman dressed up as a polar bear with splashes of joyful paint on her fur,
the emulsion on a canvas afterwards.

Waking up well is rare,
as an endangered bird somewhere, knows.
It is good to wake up ready
so surround yourself with pictures,
when it is the end
you will have to show not tell

The Military man of high standing
I don’t know,
clawing like pets were
his cats and his feet,
at scratching-post fir trees,
looking for a forest that is only represented
on behalf of the trees.

The sun rose over the voice that housed her,
melted glass.

And this is what I learnt from the polar bear.

As the polar bear is white
because she likes the snow,
to be seen out to sea
visible only to me
because it reflects the light

And I was happy to enter
past the ocean
where a polar bear,
where ice once stood
at her feet,
walks the horizon,
looking for,
equally confused and diminished
schools of fish.

I want to be weird and in love
and go with you to Oxford
to remain with our friendly strangeness
beset by the better spirits
like candle flames
sheltered by cool stone
in an old town,
with a wise, satirical sense of the truthful world
and its lies,
to leave any anxieties and paranoias behind
spitting over their own skeletons
in attempts to cool
the uncertain skins they shake in
in punts
as we board others,
aflame and in the opposite direction,
vomit one last time
under bridges
and pass through arches
of a fast food restaurant in an historic building.

Join us for “Spring!” – A Day of Poetry and Dance Events at Embrace Arts in Leicester

Dear Leicester people,

On the 24th March at 3.30pm, fellow creator and awesome person Zara Dillinger  and I are collaborating on a dance/poetry workshop entitled “Wheelchair Bruisers” as part of the “SPRING!” spontaneous poetry event,  at Embrace Arts at the Richard Attenborough Centre, Leicester.

The workshop includes some themes relevant to disabled people and wheelchair users I suppose, but you absolutely don’t need to be one to come along, as it will be mostly an excuse to have fun.

The workshop is superhero themed, and we’ll be spontaneously moving and poetry-making around the idea of the superheroes we are, even in our ordinary daily lives, the things we can do, and how we can overcome any obstacle, however fantastical. Our workshop is in the family-friendly segment before 6.30, so will suitable for anyone of all ages.

“SPRING!” will be a wonderful event, thanks to the organisation skills, energy and enthusiasm of Leicester’s renowned “Grey, Gay Poet”, Bobba Cass. There will be workshops featuring esteemed local stars on the vibrant, always inspiring Leicester poetry scene, such as Pam Thompson and Magnus Gestsson, Carol Leeming and Rob Gee, and many others from a line-up truly bursting with talent, who promise to make the day a very special event indeed. I’m naming but a few for the sake of convenience in this post, but the full timetable of of what’s happening at the event can be found here. A finale from the excellent Jean Binta Breeze is sure to be especially spectacular.

Please feel free to come along to “SPRING!” and our “Wheelchair Bruisers” workshop, so that we have some lovely, awesome people to workshop to :)

I plan to continue trying to magic find  in the everyday, and I have more alter-ego themed hijinks and, yes, some surprises planned for my very first attempt at a workshop!

Here’s a brief description of our workshop so you know something of what to expect:

Based on the concept of “All-Powerful Invisible Capes of Us Obscure Superheroes”, in this workshop we will discover that we are all superheroes, capable of amazing things. We are also tiny dots in the universe, but that’s okay! Also, we don’t have to do amazing things all the time, because your power is in being you! And going to the shops is AWESOME! (When the aisles are wide enough for all of us and there’s a ramp into the entrance!)

In our mission as superheoes, it would be foolish to deny that everyday obstacles exist, but we’ll discover how we can do anything we want, and overcome any of these in many different ways!

Peter Buckley, a.k.a. Peter and The Hare, is the unexpectable Leicester-based purveyor and believer in the magical, the surreal and the silly, and here at “SPRING!”, he makes his workshop debut. Drawing from his experience in the use of alter-egos, he will ask you to imagine a garment or object that will instantly activate your super powers.

Our superhero gathering will create alter-egos and think about how you use your powers everyday. The gunpowder-stench of pulp fiction and the yawning mouth and eye-bags of reality will blur more than Mo Farah running-on-the-spot atop a freight train. If you’re an accountant by day, and an accountant by night; if your special power is making a wicked lamb tagine, if you have money-off coupons for hands, ready to dispense to poor and needy citizens… If you can’t stand this immature superhero nonsense; whoever you are, we need you in our team. If you can’t dance for toffee, I promise not to offer you any toffee. A team-like atmosphere will be cemented by a range of activities and surprises, that will assist the group and disrupt expectations. We’ll be in a place where you can be anything, which is not actually the stuff of comic book fiction, but of everyday reality. We’ll imagine into being an alternative, and certainly attainable, world where boundaries don’t exist, and we share an imagination that is more cool than controversial, but radical in its intensity. The poet Charles Bukowski said “Opening a can of sardines can be an art”; The Flaming Lips sang, “With all your power/what would you do?” ; Batman said “Some days you just can’t get rid of a bomb” – Our spontaneous movements will superpower the everyday with magic. Once we get to know each other, we’ll be unstoppable. Check your common sense at the door to save a world that doesn’t necessarily want to be saved, and don’t hold out for a hero a minute longer, Bonnie Tyler, because “tag, your It” this SPRING! It’s a free-wheeling vehicle heading your way. We’re a few superheroes from downtrodden, depressing Gothic metropolises looking for something to dance about. Participants are invited to wear ECSTATIC DRESS and enjoy an atmosphere of “going with it, whatever it is”.

Please join us for “Spring!” – a whole host of exciting events combining spontaneous dance and poetry, happening from 11am to 8pm on 24th of March at Embrace Arts, Leicester! Full Schedule of the day here

Poem of Contentment

Where the seagulls fly,
where a clocktower chimes
of “oranges and lemons”.

Where fruit trees line the path of limes
to get to the gate
that simply says “enter”,
nothing grander
than that.

When I left small tears to leave
the goodbye
on the windowsill.

In it, it seems, a world of bathroom sinks and mirrors,
not being able to name
all the types of birds and
who are this minute
patrolling the hedge-maze
of the green non-existent forest of summer

I am blissful even now.
I’m as happy as I will be
in this peaceful city,
consisting of three chimes of a locked
gate, a clock,
and some songs of citrus fruits.

and this is not a real poem,
just a float,
and float on -
in blue chalk,
just as I am in peace,
and as happy as I will be,
when I get there.

This quiet city,
peopled by robots,
who sing self-assembled
catchphrases and melodies
of My First Sony
that only their inventor found himself repeating,
as the memory of one day
doing something special and somehow significant
even though he could never hope to define what it was then
and is even now.

complete, complete
and feeling like a full moon,
with a pot-bellied sumo wrestler,
on a dinner plate,
on a bed by the river.

I continue on my way beyond
the bend of the lilac river,
where trawler-men are fishing
for their own reasons,
and continue singing
in Edo-peroid Japan,
in the same reflections to which they whisper their non-applicable,
mirrored apologies to people made of smoke,
playing mah-jongg and other games,
on the heads of cranes,
and this isn’t a poem that
needs to look for a reason,
to live, and doesn’t expect to be any good
or better -

the struggling draft of
a poem can fall asleep.

Notes Towards a Nature Poem

It’s your body I feel,
so I need your fingers,
so many pores as to pass this way unnoticed
to be completely transparent,
to read or study with rare and steady attention
in the glow of hypothetical textbooks and monitors.

A globe is buried somewhere under the Earth
that is meant to represent us
as we shift model battleships over a yellowing world atlas
timing our escape
while setting steel traps for animals
that we know will never be
native to this region.

As if
and if I blink,
heavy lids will shut again
eyes will drop away
to give way
to another time.

To hand to a passing
somnolent man,
as a gift,
someone whose eyes are gone,
that now belong
to the stuff of dreams.

Should we peel away
lenses from fish
embed their eyes in the soft mud for him,
contacts pressed indelicately with thumbs
or should we borrow
functioning glasses
from our emptied bottles?

No, we won’t.
However much we could
improve his sight in mega-pixels
from nothing
without anyone knowing.

We could not hear each other
under the sky,
the listening posts are useless,
electricity stopped passing through
the dull grey wires.

We tried to light candles that
wouldn’t light in the wind,
under hoodies concocted
colour gels for spotlights,
tinctures from alcohol,
and whatever we found growing.

Only a picnic blanket covered
a worn, cold patch of ground.

In the woods,
we befriended and loved
a creature

with a pair of
with no eyes below them,

which would have been blue,
and used to drink with us,
the intoxicating air
of the wind farm
on the horizon.

If you want to think “blue”,
think of the reflection on a frozen lake,
of what he remembers as a human
nothing but your muffled voice approaching, quick,
an imagined scarf in the wind.

Neither the wind nor the ice is given that colour
in real life.

The creature whose beautiful eyes
could, if it had them, imbibe water
was now weeping out of the space where –
stick with me –

his eyes would be,
poor “dog”,

we called it,
and he called out to us with
that unimaginative name.

The absence of those orbs and
owl-like eyes!

Blind at the level of
the carved ankle

the feet entrenched,
stood underground like roots,
finally leaving
cavernous footprints
for keeping rain

We’re bare of our leaves -

We have shown our companion
how to misplace belongings,
how to get drunk and
how to sing.

Meanwhile, in the night,
when I had momentarily
forgotten the basic science of
but remembered my dream
and woke up from it;
the conveyer belts of rain and
brushed-away leaves,

and I fear I am, without
an understanding of numbers,
but in this way I am free to marvel at
leaves that fall.

With garments on the ground and
setting fires to keep warm,
a striped shirt, a skirt is alive
when abandoned,
and discovered by squirrels.

Your loneliness is amazing,
in this era, full of everything.
You I entered and merged with
dressed as someone who came to
talk the trees down,
dressed in green.

Emptiness that camouflage could
hide between
if the Rangers became suspicious.

Our “dog” and I,
no eyes to wipe dry,
and with so much dog hair,
sweeps away brown leaves,
like a painter,
and his solemn brush.

Notes from Croatia

The duvet of roses,
the helter of the skelter,
in the approximate sort of funfair
that is present in all places,

acclimatised eventually
and, like a flower, planted;

on the stairs,
able to see daylight;
to be considered a sculpture
by the sleepers in the morning,

of the unbelievable blue sky,
the Spring under the mattress,
the kindness of the light
Summer quilt.

The lady, as I live and breath,
wears orange hair,
which stays as it is in the minute she awakes,
until it is variously styled by the breeze at the harbour.

She’s sitting in the doorway
for minutes
full of hours
in the company of a cat.

The gift that is cast,
as a Roman numeral ahead,
is an hour of time
here, in Croatia.

When the clock strikes with some
“Hello Kitty” theme-tune,
she dresses unexpectedly in a lime-green,
matador’s suit of lights,
and expects to milk more honey from the day
than I would be inclined to.

A day to greet the many strays
in Rovinj, port city of cats,
to step off land onto a boat
- we know its owner -
and go fishing.
By which I mean
to see the clear sea in all our clarity,

and to repeatedly mouth the word “fish”
in-between kisses.

the gleaming stones,
the aluminium dolphin.

To softly open a can of lemon beer.

Fire Engine

The red living room,
the quick green lizard on the armchair facing
the beach,
it opens onto the world.

A portrait of the Virgin Mary,
a bird that is happy and yellow,
rosy-cheeked in its cage,
chirps occasionally.

We’re soon on the sea,
in a pedalo resembling a fire-engine,
legs protruding from behind honeycomb rocks.

The radio plays “The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite”.


A path of rocks
leads to the sea,
the jellyfish are as unknown
as we,
they are
the same colour as the donut filling,
they move as only jellyfish swim -
with marmalade donuts
floating beside them.

Night’s Dream

Not the sleepy-eyed, handsome priest
I imagined was on
the ten Kuna note.

Tired of Romans,
fatigued and nourished by
the milk of the sun,

who kissed his hand with kindness
who visited the yellow house
with the diamond window
to philosophise with a woman,
surrounded by sketches of fish,
that moved between blinks of his eyes -
the painted ones that swam behind the water,
in a tank.

As she floats on the sea,
her pet Croatian jellyfish,
her ever-changing
amphibious abode;

While he is afraid of things floating
in his pristine bathtub,
she takes to water,
another somewhere in Istria.

He has a fever,
and has had enough of politics.
He meets a man dressed as a lion,
who is tied to a tree.

As Samson between the columns,
the priest’s face from Dubrovnik,
and a tongue for seawater,
met the lion’s fur and mane.

Matko, the priest,
remained in his company
as the bird inside
the green dome of
the tree,
or the dog waiting
outside the supermarket
for his Master.

In the yellow room,
while behind the diamond-shaped window,
he and the woman
and the lion
continued to philosophise.


the field of tall crucifixes painted by hand with
the red soil,
that can grow kiwis
easily here

the hut of stone
the farmers I passed by at speed,
the bad bus driver
is efficient,
the network is confusing
to tourists.

Missing Notes

Missing Paperweight

Corporate and lonely, whistling a three-or-four note tune,
in metal. The logo that identifies him is a sheep, a small drum, a broken gate, a trumpet to be played in an expanse of field, and…
does buttons up and down in his preferred sequence.
Loves, laughs and thinks.

A goldfish is floating, outside the window of the fish-bowl, saying “OO, O, O, O” to a three-or-four note tune, and stays there for the rest of time, looking in.

In the fastest-growing economy, he has friends at parties, an interest in architecture, what heaven is like, and Chinese culture.

Could stay awake,
spending life, travelling with eyes closed evenly on each side,
thankfully, in a tightly-woven boat,
down the motor-river,

oh, cotton sleep fallen from the tree.
Yellow passenger lights go by;
illuminated no-smoking signs overhead.

I’d like to wear this jumper
in gale-force winds.

Call me in the morning
on the eve of a holiday,
holding a lucky bag,
a colouring book and crayons


When I count every day, I am missing every monkey. I count every cute planet-ruling simian who soon meets, fights, plays, and speaks. With a smile and tumbler-handle ears.

He wants nothing yet but a banana. I might like more than a banana, but would be content with one for now.

When I walk up the beach, chasing monkey. Chasing the difference between an inflatable and the fruit banana, and monkey knows me, from his throne in India, Malaysia and other places, and beach hut in trees.

no sunshine (“La Bamba”)

Without the sunshine
that someone put back in the box
saying “time to put away your toys”.

So it was dark;
we called it night.

Then dreamt of silver cars and knights
then founded a city made of gold
with a leopard guarding at the gates,
who said,

“who goes there?
- knight, tiger or lion?”

Each of them, friends
passing through in silver cars
that I left
to the distant singing of
“La Bamba”.

The candles of wax held strong -
wearying arms out of tall windows.

Diamonds, as essential to a diet as an everyday apple,
the arrival of electric bulbs and flowers
makes us lazy.

Adverts charged with electricity,
sending messages just to themselves,

a large sign for the hump-backed creatures of which there were many.

Now I don’t think I know or mind about anything;

always having light.

EL DIARIO DE ________
(THE DIARY OF ______ )

The day I was young,
was the first page of my diary,

The day I grew old,
never happened,

Home stayed where it was,
musical chairs
played hits of the time,

such as Glenn Miller and his Orchestra,
their silver aeroplane getting lost in the fog,

cows settling below
in the blitzed city,

sun on the faces of children.