David is a poet, playwright, lyricist and short story writer from the North West of England.
He is a member of the international poetry study group Worldly Worders.
He has been published in a number of magazines both on-line and in print.
In 2016 his poem ‘Home Straight’ featured at the Fermoy International Festival.
The stage play ‘Intervention’ was produced for World Peace Day.
The main influences on his writing include; Ted Hughes, Ann Sexton, W. D. Snodgrass, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, James Baldwin, Pablo Neruda and his favourite poet Philip Larkin.
His poetry has been published in the following publications…
Poetry Pacific Magazine, TRR Poetry, Sixteen Magazine, Mad Swirl
Tulip Tree Review (Print Version) Oddball Magazine, Poem Hunter, THE BeZINE, Creative Talents Unleashed, Drawn to the Light Press, Live Encounters & The Galway Review.
His poem ‘He Crawled’ was placed third for the Pushcart Prize in the Blue Nib magazine in 2018. Also, in 2018 his poem ‘Pour me a Vision’ featured in VatsalaRadhakeesoon.wordpress.com for Dylan Thomas Day.
His debut collection ‘Through an Open Window’ was released in August 2021.
David’s website contains poems from his book, along with new works intended to find a home in a future collection.
Edge of Morning
Outcast’s invade noir dreams; pretenders to reality, the departed mocking mankind moving the earth to cut itself. I the victim chained to falsehood seeking redemption for cryptic injustice chase refracted light into darkness, with intention lost to fear. Witnesses to deception claw at fibres of warped morality, whispered voices echo truth denied, as I pay homage to fantasy. Travelling to the golden age held in tin-pot setting, tarnished yet accepted held high among phoney gods. Deeds done reflected in eyes that mock teeth sharpened on lies chase me to the edge of morning where those deceived bring me back.
The Highest Branch
I can hear the clang of the hoop as I hold the hand of a cooper of old the yielding of staves as your sweat sprays on shavings. I am there as you push a barrel-laden handcart tubs strapped to your back on a ten-mile journey door to door, tavern to tavern, to feed a family of seven a wife, two sons, three daughters one my grandma. You are the highest branch I have reached along the continuum of lineage that spawned two generations before me; the limb from which blood flowed to the furthest pulse. Between us, we spanned three centuries linked from the moment my tiny fingers wrapped around the crags of your living hand. Any knowledge of your nature, was passed down; hard but fair, they say, though my recall is of grey whispers and slow, troubling snuffles. Your ninety years crossed mine by four; all but blind, you smiled in my direction a tiny shadow with the voice of a mouse. You will be forever warm below the deadwood, those, hidden behind names you knew through life, the ones I cannot reach. But you, Daniel Moran, live in me, the thud of your hammer beats on as my heart will beat in those that follow.
Such as it is
Erudite voices weaken their echo ever distant as I follow, as they fade afraid to lose the final whimper. The journey stretches and leans on me I become disillusioned dwarfed by giants though as I gather what remains, I forge ahead following the sound of me! It’s become more noticeable as it amplifies one decibel at a time, ignoring the voices not my own though taking something from each. Such as I know it, I must nurture my voice now I have rescued the echo of it. The resonance rising within me comes from those left behind as I bounce back with mine such as it is… The spit roast turns ancients filter through as the earth burns as it shakes, and its boils burst.