The Pen Wrangler

Our growing moan a lofty growl, that would become a clashing howl enforcing them to soon renounce, as they came forth and we did pounce, ...

The Cat of St. Ives (Part III) Goodly men laid in the ground in numbers that would all astound. Others fled, to better fare a...

The Cat of St. Ives (Part II) I never was a cat of home, and born the streets I was to roam from Tom unknown, and mother cold I l...

I'm publishing the beginning extract of a poem I started a long time ago, while I was living in Luton. The first line came to me while I...