This is my latest poetry book. It can be found on Amazon.
I wrote this poem for Anna and her vision of hundreds of lorries carrying my books around the country. I did not think that would ever happen. My vision was for a lonely moped delivering a solitary parcel to the back of beyond – a single book for my kindred spirit.
I write books. I say what I think and put it as clearly as I can. I attempt to write well, to engage the reader’s mind. For me there has to be purpose, depth and meaning. Why else write?
As a writer am I merely part of the entertainment industry?
I think not.
I am an artist who paints with words. I tell stories with a purpose, with integrity and authenticity. I do not write for a commercial market. I write for discerning readers who want content.
Yet we can all dream.
What is the point of writing if there is no audience? If no ape is saved? No hatred melted into love? No chuckles forthcoming or hearts touched? It there is nobody to wonder what will happen next? No tree unchopped? No mind engaged?
Perhaps, one day, everyone will want to buy my latest book? Perhaps they will love turning the pages and avidly digest the product of my imagination? Perhaps they, in their multitudes, will declare me a genius, appoint me world leader and look to me to save the planet from the madness that is consuming it? Perhaps I will top the best-seller lists and win the Nobel Prize for literature? Perhaps more people will read an Opher book than any other book? Perhaps they will laugh, cry and be intrigued and their lives will be changed? Perhaps they will have to build more presses, more lorries and more trains?
But then who wants all that?
The reality is that I hope to connect with like-minded people who are intelligent, interested and alternative – artists, writers, dancers, musicians and dreamers. People who enjoy a story and are as concerned and interested as I myself am.
One book sold to a kindred spirit is worth a truckload of trite.
But I can still dream.
Orders down the lines they pour
As through the night the presses roar.
Into boxes neatly packed.
Onto pallets tightly stacked.
Into lorries, on to trains
And off down the tracks again.
Convoys trundle down motorway –
Huge loads of books to convey
To eager people who wait
To hear the rattle at their gate.
Best seller lists record the score
As books are sold to rich and poor.
Everything is put aside
As the pages open wide.
Avid eyes devour the text
Wondering what is coming next.
A smile, a nod an excited mind
Delighting in what it is they find.
The planet is saved and peace reigns
As Opher’s message is obtained.
The hatred dies and birth rate dips
As Opher’s logic passes from lips to lips
Chimps, whales and rhinos heave a sigh
Safe again under unpolluted sky.
All is well and happy once more
As Opher touches to the core.
The alarm rings
And kettle sings.
Down some lane a lonely moped bumps
Driven by a woman down in the dumps.
Such a long way to have to go
A dreary ride through rain and snow
To deliver one lonely pack
Then to the depot heads off back.