Tag Archives: poet

Alone with Everybody by Charles Bukowski



Alone With Everybody

By Charles Bukowski.


the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men drink too


and nobody finds the


but keep


crawling in and out

of beds.

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than



there’s no chance

at all:

we are all trapped

by a singular



nobody ever finds

the one.


the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill


nothing else





Filed under Art, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Ideas, Innovation, Inspiration, Poetry, Writing

How do I Love Thee? #71/365

Sonnet 43 – How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.


Filed under Art, Creativity, Inspiration, Poetry, Writing

Let me fail in Sunshine – new post.

I’ve been a busy little bee of late publishing my first novel, Love is Blood.

Well, I’ve now also published my first collection of poetry, called Let me fail in Sunshine. It’s split into three sections covering childhood, nature and love.

When I first began writing poetry in my teens, I tried to write how I thought poetry should be written – T.S. Eliot, Wordsworth, etc, like I’d learned at school. This was unnatural and forced. (Not to mention, crap.)

It was only years later, after discovering the works of Raymond Carver and Charles Bukowski, that I realised it was okay to be me. Not to try and be someone I’m not.

So, I found my voice.

It wasn’t long after, that my work started getting published in poetry journals, periodicals, websites and anthologies. Many of the poems featured in this collection have been published in the U.S., Britain and Ireland.

Some of them are humorous, some are heartbreaking, while others will fill you with joy.

There are a couple of sample poems under the image of the front cover. I hope you like them. And, if you do, maybe you would be so kind as to pop over to Amazon and buy a copy of it please? (Just click on the cover image and it will take you through to Amazon.)

let me fail in sunshine, poetry, david milligan-Croft


Holes appear in wardrobes,
Cupboards stare agape.

Delft wrapped in newsprint,
Boxes packed and taped.

Naked patches,
Where photographs once hung.

Dusty bookshelves
With no stories to tell.

Bulging suitcases
Clambering for the door.

Except, I’m not the one,
Going anywhere.


The pole from which I hang

Is normally meant for the washing.

Today though, I am out to dry,

Swinging like a criminal

By the neck of my t-shirt.

It was my means of escape

That captured me:

Across Mr. Gordon’s garden,

Through the hedge,

Over the shed roof,

With the crab apples,

Down the washing pole,

Where I now hang.


Filed under Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Haiku, Ideas, Inspiration, Poetry, Writing

Le cadavre d’exquis, de l’amour – new poem

Le cadavre d’exquis, de l’amour.

Draguignan, 1999.

© David Milligan-Croft

Outside the vineyard,
Droplets of rain refresh us,
Along with the bottle of white wine,
On the wrought iron table.

There’s a sunflower between us
On the cover of your notebook;
We take it in turns
To write our exquisite corpse, of love.

Occasionally, we stop,
To exchange wine through baisers,
While the rain makes our words bleed,
Like your mascara at Nice airport.


Filed under Art, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Ideas, Inspiration, Poetry, Writing

Let me fail in sunshine – new poem

Perhaps I could be accused of trying to solicit pathos. However, that was never my intention. I just like the image that it paints.


© David Milligan-Croft

I was born for the sun.
To sit in creased, cream flannels,
Specks of red wine on a grubby white shirt,
Dusty feet, naked in espadrilles.

I could think in the sun.
Writing plays of heroes and lovers;
Perhaps my life story, (with an exaggeration or two),
Royalties and rights, money for jam.

I could dream in the sun.
A romance I made up, which lasted forever;
At home, she wore a floral dress, and carved words into paper,
Wherever that was.

I could fail in the sun.
Where tears of remorse dried in the mid-day haze;
Idle dreams floating like ice in a glass,
Slowly, slowly, slipping away.


Filed under Art, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Ideas, Inspiration, Poetry, Writing

The shoebox in the attic – new poem.


© David Milligan-Croft.                                                                                  

I look at myself – not in a mirror,
But in an old black & white photograph.

It’s about forty-odd years old now,
And there’s a tear down the middle,                                                                       Where another photograph
Was stuck to it.

I am on the doorstep of someone’s house –                                                                      It could be mine – I’m not sure.
The door is open, and inside,
I can see a battered old pram

And a vinyl chair with metal legs.                                                                                       The house looks old,
Judging by the worn door frame
And the rounded edges of the bricks.

I am about two, I think.
I have jelly-bean sandals and white socks                                                                     On chubby white legs. I presume I have shorts on
But that is the part that’s torn.

I am wearing a thick, woolly cardigan.                                                                              I’m being hugged
In my huggable cardigan
By a woman I do not know.

When I say, “woman”,

She looks about fifteen.
And is wearing a shiny floral blouse                                                                            And black ski-pants                                                                                                       Which I am sat upon.

She has her face squished up against mine,                                                                     Like she loves me, or something.                                                                                        And her arms wrapped tightly around me,                                                                      As though she’s afraid I’ll disappear.

I am so scrunched up
That my head dominates the rest of my body.                                                   Beneath my fair-haired fringe
I wear a frown.

My furrowed brow is depressed
Onto two depressed eyes.
She looks happy.

I do not.


Filed under Art, Children, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Ideas, Inspiration, Poetry, Writing

Sometimes I look for you – new poem.


© David Milligan-Croft.


It’s been almost twenty years now.


Even still, I look for you,

Every time I visit our capital.


I look for you ascending great escalators,

As I descend into the labyrinth.


I scan the faces in crowded carriages

Looking for your headachey eyes.


I look for the scar

On hands that grip the rail.


Although you are not the purpose

Of my visit, I hope to catch a glimpse of you,


Among the other eight million inhabitants.

And, why on earth not?


It’s still better odds

Than winning the lottery.


And that’s what being with you

was like – winning the lottery.


Filed under Art, Contemporary Arts, Creativity, Ideas, Innovation, Inspiration, Poetry, Writing