Second edition of Urban Voices

I'm very pleased with the new cover for the second edition of Urban Voices. I have added several new poems to the collection and revised some of the illustrations, so I thought a makeover of the front cover might also be in order.

I selected this photo from a series of four I took one rainy late evening as I was walking through Piccadilly Circus  in London. 

In case you're wondering, Piccadilly Circus isn't yer actual circus (no performing animals or clowns - although some might disagree), and it has nowt to do with pickled vegetables either. But it is a bustling centre of activity most nights, and I like the image I selected because of its movement and the colours that are reflected on the wet pavement from the illuminated advertising screens.  

I hope you'll agree, it's quite a striking image to use for the front cover of the book.

I hope you get the chance to check it out, as it's available on all Amazon main sites across the globe, and as I announced at the start of 2021, all of the profits from sales this year (and I mean the entire year), will be donated to NHS charities - a very worthy charity that supports both patients and hospital staff. 

You can purchase paperback and Kindle editions of Urban Voices at the following sites:

Amazon UK Kindle £1.99 Paperback £7.99

Amazon US Kindle $2.99 Paperback $9.99

Amazon Canada Kindle C$3.99 Paperback C$9.99

Amazon Brazil Kindle R$9.99 Paperback R$52.94

Amazon Australia Kindle A$4.99 Paperback A$21.77

Amazon Japan Kindle ¥271 Paperback ¥1,100

Amazon India Kindle ₹189

Amazon Germany Kindle €2.99

Amazon France Kindle €2.99

Amazon Spain Kindle €2.99

Amazon Netherlands Kindle €2.99

Amazon Italy Kindle €2.99

Amazon Sweden Paperback Kr166.50

Amazon Mexico Paperback $233.03 Kindle $99

Amazon Singapore Paperback S$13.45

Drop the F bomb

The foul mouthed obscenities that issue from his lips 

send shivers down the spine and a convulsion to the hips 

Like clockwork from his lips another execration drips 

just when you think he’s finished, yet another oath he’ll trip 

I don’t think I have ever heard such oaths in all my days 

and he has to slip the F word into everything he says

Shocking are the contents of his base vocabulary 

and all the other words he says imply vulgarity 

He seems to take delight in mouthing his profanity 

His maledictions by the score show such inanity 

Protest until you’re breathless, it ain’t going to go away 

‘cos he’ll always slip the F word into everything he says

He seems to have expletives for every situation 

and if swearing was a sport he’d be the champ of imprecation 

The invective that’s injected into every conversation 

is enough to make the bluest comic blush in consternation 

Everybody’s tried, but he will never change his ways 

he can’t help but slip the F word into everything he says 

His cussing and his cursing and his dirty dysphemism 

infuse his filthy wordage and perpetuate a schism 

between his sensibility and abject vulgarism 

his effing and his blinding are a spicy euphemism 

Call it colourful language, call it anything you may 

he’s going to drop the F bomb into everything he says 

Steve Wheeler © 30 January, 2021

image source

On top of the world

He had the world at his beck and call 

He had no problems or worries at all, 

with plenty of money and cash to spare

he lived like a goddamned billionaire

He drank like a fish and slept like a cat

with golden cushions wherever he sat

his stocks and shares were doing well

his other investments were giving it hell

his palatial mansion in the South of France

was host to many a song and dance

On the top of the world, he had no doubt

… and then his liver gave out

She was renowned for her glitz and glamour

wherever she went the press would clamour

Known as a high class debutante

seen in the very best restaurants

Her global travel and her movie deals

and a jet-set life gave her all the feels

A party girl drinking best champagne

living the high life again and again

She came from the humble working class

but soon accumulated a wealth of brass

She promised herself she would never go back 

… and then came the heart attack

Steve Wheeler © 28 January, 2021

image source

It all comes back to bite you (in the end)

I wanna go where the mad things are

I wanna drive in a big fast car 

I wanna party with the movie stars 

but it all comes back to bite you in the end 

I wanna go where the explorers went 

up the mountainside in an alpine tent 

or go where no-one’s ever been sent 

but it all comes back to bite you in the end

I wanna go where the rich folk go 

live in a beach house in Acapulco 

playing games of chance in Monaco 

but it all comes back to bite you in the end

I tried to run with the hounds and hares 

tried to make friends with the grizzly bears 

and the lions too, but I soon got scared 

and they all came back to bite me (in the end)

Steve Wheeler © 27 January, 2021

image source

Cut price castaway

Washed up on the shores of Tesco

with shopping trollies on the rocks

sheltering from the spume of bargains

stranded inside a charity box

Floating round the horn of good soap

crawling over the carrier bags

tangled up in the plastic packing,

lifestyle magazines and filtered fags

Shipwrecked in the frozen food aisle

clutching shopper loyalty cards

reaching for the cut-price life vests

watched by unsmiling security guards 

Rescue me from being stranded

on the rocks of Waitrose or M and S

Save me from rank consumerism

I’m sending out an S.O.S.

A family pack of washing powder

(buy one and you get one free)

is all I need to wash me cleanly

back to the freedom of the deep blue sea.

Steve Wheeler © 26 January, 2021

image source

Cloud messenger

A man once tried to emulate the tale 

contained in the epic poem of Kālidāsa. 

He asked a passing cloud if it would convey

a message to his lover many miles away.

Once he had whispered his ardent words

the cloud promised to travel

and discover 

the location of his woman, 

and to deliver the message to his lonely, distant lover. 

The journey there was arduous and long

and the cloud traversed for many leagues

buffeted and blown by winds so strong

over mountain ranges and across the glistening seas

over icebound glaciers and deserts dry and hot

above forests and rivers, meadows and fields

until finally the cloud arrived at the very spot

where the man’s lover was revealed.

Sadly by now the cloud had long forgotten

the words it had been entrusted to keep

and in its bitter grief and deep frustration

all it could manage was to weep. 

Steve Wheeler © 25 January, 2021

image by Steve Wheeler

Refugees from Paradise

Oh, the tragedy of Eden 

all the torment and the pain 

to be evicted from the Garden 

never to return again. 

Oh the sadness and the anguish 

to be severed from the source 

of life and hope and comfort 

nothing left but the remorse.

To wander in a strange land 

refugees from paradise 

no home, no hope, no future 

victims of our own device 

Banished from perfection 

from the presence of the One 

who cherished us and made us. 

No more moments in the sun.

Oh, the tragedy of Eden 

emerging from the rubble 

of rebellion in the Garden, 

the source of all our trouble 

Steve Wheeler © 19 January, 2021

image source

Cancel culture

Feed the vulture, cancel culture, 

Stitch up surgeons with their sutures 

Stone the prophets, steal their futures 

Prevent clairvoyants telling fortunes 

Cancel agents and their clients 

Halt the scientists, stop the science 

Erase all emblems of defiance 

Tear down works of literary giants 

Silence sculptors and musicians 

Artists, painters and magicians 

Cancel art that speaks against you 

Blot out history that offends you 

Limit the freedom of the press 

Shut down the media, more or less 

Cancel language, cancel talking 

Stop us thinking, running, walking 

Cancel culture, flex the strong arm 

Cancel all that triggers alarms 

Call them all out, name and shame them 

Cancel culture, then pass the blame on 

Steve Wheeler © 17 January, 2021

image source

Try not to stare

At the end of the street where the three pathways meet who knows where your feet will travel? \ past the strip clubs and whores, drunken bullies and bores, just don’t stare as their stories unravel \ there’s perverts and nonces, and deviants and ponces who’d rival the vile Jimmy Savile \ there’s clip joints and boozers, and gamblers, and losers, and hustlers and waste-yer-time rabble \\ 

keep your eyes dead ahead, and your thoughts in your head as they paint the town red where you travel \ on bad concrete tracks, over potholes and cracks having sheer heart attacks in the gravel \ you could choke in the mud of this bad neighbourhood, you could drown in the blood of the battle \ no one would care, you’d be left lying there in a bright neon glare that will dazzle \ near the ill-repute clubs and the alcohol hubs and the noisy hubbub of the razzle \ there's no semblance of law, there’s no order at all, there’s no fall of a magistrate’s gavel \\ 

move along while you dare but please don’t stop and stare at the urban despair in the city \ make no contact with eyes, and disguise your surprise because most will despise any pity \ put aside your alarm and disarm with your charm or you’ll come to some harm in the city \ the district is seedy, but the people are needy, stay away from their greedy ferocity \\ 

Steve Wheeler © 16 January, 2021

image source

Nailed

You can nail a shingle to your office wall 

Screw a photo frame secure so it won’t fall 

You can nail a horseshoe up above your door 

Nail a hundred objects high, or even more 

You can pin your pictures to an album page 

or secure a backdrop to a drama stage 

You can fasten any object as you will 

but Christ climbed willingly up that hill 

The nails did not secure Him to that tree 

The spikes did not prevent Him being free 

but love became His sole constraint 

and Christ died for the sinner, not the saint 

Steve Wheeler © 14 January, 2021

image source

We all fall down

The disco Rollarena 

down by the yacht marina 

was a human melodrama 

I wish I’d brought me camera 

to capture all the clamour 

We’d skate around in circles 

‘till we all fell down 

I'd pretend I couldn’t skate, 

chat up girls and stay out late 

My knee pads simply bait 

as I fixed meself a date 

‘cos the future wouldn’t wait 

then my head would spin in circles 

as the world fell down 

To our Sony Walkman beats 

we’d go skating through the streets 

cruising pavements and concrete 

on those roller blades of heat 

that destroyed our bleeding feet 

as we skated cross the cobbles 

‘till we all fell down 

In the Eighties skater creed 

we would feel the need for speed 

crashing down so hard we’d bleed 

get back up and not concede 

keep it rolling, feed the need 

Skating over potholes 

made us all fall down 

Steve Wheeler © 5 January, 2021

image source

Slow seeds

I’m lying on my lonely bed 

while Dylan’s tunes grow in my head. 

Out in the rainy street a siren is whirring. 

Day fades slowly into twilight 

and I switch on the bedside light. 

Inside my tranquil room, my thoughts are stirring. 

There, in the noisy world outside 

order and chaos coincide 

while all is still inside my peaceful room. 

I read from Dylan’s poetry; 

the slow seeds of his imagery 

take root inside my mind’s poetic womb 

Bob / Dylan / Thomas – sages, 

on the tracks and off the pages, 

each assails my brain with poignant verse. 

Rage against the dying light 

you precious angel of the night, 

and each in time will quench my curious thirst. 

 

Steve Wheeler © 4 January, 2021

image source

Spongiform

I read more stories than I could ever write 

I imagine more battles than I could ever fight 

I sleep more dreams than I could ever say 

Like a sponge I soak up each and every day 

I absorb more knowledge than I could ever show 

I go to more places than I should ever go 

I write more scenes than I could ever play 

I soak up the hours and I mop up the day 

Steve Wheeler © 2 January, 2021

image source

At the turning of the year

At the slow turning of the year 

the artifice, the ersatz tear. 

Our futures are unknown, unclear 

imbued with our unfounded fear. 

Yet as I hesitate a while, 

I catch your enigmatic smile 

that says to me, we travel not alone. 

Fear is for one moment then it’s gone. 

Steve Wheeler © 31 December, 2020

image source