New Year Notes

something you haven’t done, that we’ll do,
get around to,
given the time and strength to
in the new
year to me.

In the new year,
it appears impossible,
already like your vintage blues,
but that’s why we should,
and why it might
become possible,
just because.

This new year might arrive after all.

Offer, if you could,
your sand-timer looks
at the rolling-around
putty egg of some love.

Other luck and things
we can accidentally muster,

so sleep in expansive fur of snoozing animals
after time’s levelled land.

But don’t out-wait the coming day,
it’s like paint thinking of colour.

Find a clue.


Peter Reading The Poem, “Folk Song”

I have made a home recording of me reading the poem, “Folk Song”.

It should please fans of the resolutely lo-fi.

It is free to listen and download, or available to buy on a “pay-what-you-want” basis (!)

This is the first poetry reading I have recorded. On the bandcamp page, I have also provided an optional intro bit. Those with an eagle’s eye will note that I have also sneakily unveiled the working title of a new collection!

Please enjoy!

Submissions Wanted for a New Publication – AndThe Project Presents…”Peformance”

Draft Cover For New Magazine

AndThe Project are calling for submissions for a new Chapbook/’zine publication for artists of all kinds inspired by the word, “Performance”.

I’m also asking for comments, suggestions, feedback, and anything to gauge how this sounds to you, whether it’s something you’d like to read/take part in, and pointers for now and in the project’s future.

More information can be found here:

call performance pdf

As well as a cross-discipline art, poetry and prose magazine, it is also intended as way to share insight and advice across all different kinds of experience.

Email me submissions at the stated address, too.  Questions and Enquiries welcome too.

– Peter And The Hare

In case any one has trouble reading the document, click on “Continue Reading”, below:

Continue reading Submissions Wanted for a New Publication – AndThe Project Presents…”Peformance”


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 (US) and (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 we

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.

Now Available! – Peter And The Hare’s Fireside Companion


We invite you to try our book!

Now Available at and!

Peter and the Hare are now to be found in the form of an illustrated volume.

Being the Adventures of –

“One man and his hare, and the events into which you are inescapably invited. Please wipe your feet before you enter the room.”

Peter and his Hare have made what they deem to be CERTAINLY THE BEST selections from the history of this web-place, presenting them in their DEFINITIVE FORM.



or shop now at and

Peter and The Hare’s Fireside Companion is like an old storybook you don’t quite remember.

Compiled by Peter Buckley since 2007, the stories in this volume follow one man and his (imaginary?) hare on a magical and irreverent journey, recounted with an absurd sense of humour, a taste for the surreal, and the nostalgic flavour of an earlier age.

These curious adventures are complimented by poems that summon up moods of innocence, joy, bewilderment, and escapism, yet are leant an aspect of quiet melancholy and dark mischief. Peter evokes forgotten libraries of dusty pages, folk songs, nursery rhymes, nightmares, bedtime stories, and inexplicable occurrences.

Assuredly strange, this book can disturb and delight, as well as appear touchingly sweet. Also included are the “naïve poems” of The Small Prince, each of which spontaneously creates a world transformed in proportion.

The pocket-sized Peter and The Hare’s Fireside Companion is small enough to be taken wherever you find the things that you fear or that give you comfort.

Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu. or shop now at and

The Evening Tasted Like Coffee

Rest your hair
and weary mind
where the neighbourhood gathers on the pavement outside,
greeting one another.

They blink at the lights,
mimic the small melodies of toys
repeating the yaps and somersaults
of puppy dogs.

In the park’s overgrown grass,
rest as if a plank
on the picnic table,
with the sky of all flavours of yoghurts
setting with the yellow egg
of the sweet desserts
we share as we remember.

The night is as old as old can be,
the night is a bright blue bow on the tree
you unmistakably took for butterflies,
you did!

The rainy world then following us
with windscreens,
then with a roof
above a rich rug in the sand,
where we sit and stir,
with chocolate leaves and twigs.

Rice-filled balloons are in the festive street.

We’re choosing which Fabergé egg
or Ferrero Rocher to take
from the shelves full of sweets,
our pockets full of

The street vendor grinding the aroma of coffee,
also of popcorn,
in a ushanka hat.

During the time that won’t be read aloud
like a book,
disturbing the peace

of the distant morning mist of the town’s asleep,
the promise of faraway birds without their trees,

your voice I haven’t decided on yet.