written for an exhibition local to me about the area in which i live. James “robber” Snooks was the last highway man hung in England and this poem is about the locals’ tale behind his last few hours. it is displayed at the art hub run by Annafunkyart.co.uk.

Snooks by name snooks by nature,

IT was the spring of 1802,

When the last,

 highway man swung,

Like Strange fruit from

 The mighty horse chestnut.

Of Boxmoor

Singing the fun cannot start

The fun cannot start

Till I arrive

Till I arrive

As he drank

the swan pub dry

Robber snooks

Robber snooks

What did he steal?

Postal bags

Postal bags

Now just a marker

Just a white marker

The mighty horse chestnut

of stand and deliver.

Just a legend,

Just a legend !



Navvies song

Today at #DVERSE we have been asked to write something about risk . in the las few days i have been looking at the building of the canal around where i live. i was impressed with the shear effort of the working men digging these out by hand using only pick and shovel ( the spadesl they used are called grafts hence the saying a hard days graft). The navvies (workers) risked their lives digging these out and lining them with a mix of clay and sand called puddle clay, which when keeped wet is water tight . it needed to be stomped un by many feet to drive out any air so i came up with this as i could imagine them singing in unison like sailors singing sea shanties while they stomped. .


this also now displayed at the art hub in my home town put togethor by #annasfunkyart

the view

from old Fishery bridge

Stomp the puddle down!

Stomp the puddle down!

          Under old Fishery bridge,

          Under old Fishery bridge,

Dodge the risk from above,

                    Risk from above,

More puddle clay from above

                Dropped  Clay from above

Stomp the puddle down!

Stomp the puddle down!

Deep in Fishery lock,

Deep in Fishery lock.

 We are the navvies of emerald isle,

                     Navvies of emerald isle.

Risking our life and limb

                    Our life and limb.

Stomp down the puddle!

Stomp down the puddle!

Then we can fill her to the brim,

Then we can fill her to the brim

Our canal dug out with these grafts,

                              Dug out with these grafts.

All to feed our families of emerald isle

                    Our families of emerald isle.

© 8/6/21 rog leach

Armchair #haibun

this was written for tonights monday #haibun challange at #dversepoets pub

There he sits . His knowledge never lived.

Gogglebox drop fed straight to his diseased mind.

His gardens arboreal skeletons mean no more than a hiding place.

The sky above this house burns like hellfire.

Hellfire marsh photo by Simon Luckman

The marsh of hellfire hides his victims

School uniforms his pleasure. A collection he keeps under his bed

A police cordon surrounds his house every October 31st.

Until the kiddies firebombed his abode.

Curtains twitching

Childhood monster lives within

Innocents snatches loose