Author Archives: Martin Nicholson


Sat inside this old bus shelter
painted cream but soured to rust,
overcoat with old loose button
no wife no more to sew it on:
Heard the bells chime out
at midnight,
what have I done?
nudging at some old tramp,
come on mate just giz a swig
white cider lifts my guilty conscience
but life just goes along and on;
Chase my mind to three years back
a hillside church in Skiathos town,
no-one there
just me and God,
through stained-glass window
saw sun on sea
and just for a moment
everything felt good.

(Martin Nicholson has asserted his right to be recognised as the author of this work)

Metal Shavings

Each one individual
different from the last,
still spiral in shape
and glowing with colour,
but different
as if each seperate one
has its own vocation,
growing and glowing to
the peak of its form,
or jumping lemming-like
to an inevitable end,
before it has lived
nipped in the bud and then
crushed underfoot again and again;
Then the rebel piece
causes maximum disturbance
sticks to its creator
for another lease of life,
then lies on its back
backlash and then,
the tool hits the jump
and me jumping back,
to panic for a handle,
yet another false mistake
while the rebel fits to
its own metallic waste,
and I know he’s gone for good;
I wonder should I tell them
the science of their lives?
their ductile strength,
their malleability
or how less longer
they live in the heat,
or should I keep them
young in my own imagination,
where boredom is
the furthest place away?

(Martin Nicholson has asserted his authorial rights in this work)


Magpie chatters

Drunken man’s laughter,

Pied piper hamelin

Swagger swagger on,

Black and white sailors

Borne in on shore-leave,

Weather feathered humbugs

Hops instead of runs

Taunting cats,

Coughs and chuckles

Beaking tops

Of new milk bottles.

(Martin Nicholson has asserted his Right under the Copyright,Designs&Patents Act 1988 to be recognised as the author of this work and all subsequent works appearing on this site)


Sunny starling-spattered skies
swirl down to autumn-coloured seafront,
Tides that come and tides that go
a sea that never really was;
A little London by the sea
hums and buzzes
bleats itself;
Blue skies back white rendered buildings,
wrought-iron railings climbing high
look down on busy footworn streets
and many different passers-by;
The little pretty fashion girls
with colour-spangled shapely legs
and huge emancipated breasts,
the ends describing little circles
on their sheer-look cotton vests;
And drunks and people drinking drinks
occupy the monuments,
people sleeping
people begging,
Go North young man
not said but thinking,
youths with nothing but a beer can
just for show or just for drinking;
All these people passed by me,
and all of them were passed by me
in Little London by the sea.

(The author’s copyright in this work has been asserted by Martin Nicholson.)

Tomboy:A Childhood Reminiscence

She’s got no claws,

she’s got no sting

but still she gushes in my blood;

she punctures holes in

in my thick old skin

she puts dead roses back to bud,

I held up pictures

of her climbing trees

Boys couldn’t reach those

far-off heights,but banged their

heads and cracked their fall.

then crawled back up

to kiss her knees.

(Copyright in this work has been asserted by Martin Nicholson)


To everyone you’re no-one,
with your face blotched with warts
and an eye that throbs red
in a planet of wrinkles;
they call you names
but they know you’re just old,
Ninety or ninety-five perhaps
you can never tell in
this young people’s world,
let’s just stop and pause awhile
we could break down the
elements of this worn out frame
there’s calcium,phosphorous
iron and carbon perhaps,
is there also an element of youth?
doesn’t your body determine your age?
or is it controlled
by that blank senile skull
which was tidily covered
in flesh,skin and hair,
then wickedly rotted with time?

(The author’s rights in this work have been asserted)


Someone died today,

caught his head in a lathe

it made a real mess

it tore out his brains,

I was there

I witnessed his death;

He was only a lad

at the peak of his life,

just twenty-five

two kids and a wife,

did others no harm

wasn’t accident-prone,

worked his own steady way

to keep a good home,

I wonder why he died today,

why he died in that terrible way.

(Martin Nicholson has asserted his authorial rights in this work)

Sunday Morning People

The sound of people
leading ordinary lives,
People pushing wheelie bins
down craggy concrete drives,
People washing cars
on early Sunday morning,
While other people stay in bed
stretch arms and still are yawning,
People pushing lawnmowers
in Sunday morning sun,
while the sizzle sizzle sound
of a Sunday joint is done,
People playing radios
Old songs that we’ve all heard,
drowning out the trilling song
of every singing bird,
Men back from pubs
Yelling at their wives,
Sounds and sound of people
Leading ordinary lives.

(Authorial Rights in this work have been asserted)