I heard on the radio one day that a nineteen year old girl had been found dead in one of Sydney's public toilets. It was suspected that she had died from a drug overdose. The thought of this poor unfortunate girl stayed with me and this is the poem about her and sadly, many like her.

You were the apple of your Father's eye,

As you bounced upon his knee,

You should have stayed his little girl,

For all eternity.

He used to tell you tales,

Of how he'd fly you to the moon,

But the time for bedtime stories,

Was over and all too soon.

Sadly, you did not grow together,

In fact, you grew apart,

As you slowly tore the chunks,

Out of his soft but hardening heart.

And then came the inevitable,

The day of the biggest fight,

Too proud not to pack your bags,

You disappeared into the night.

So you headed for the lights of Sydney,

Attracted by the paves of gold,

But someone so sweet and young,

Is easy prey for the sour and old.

The pimp he had a charming smile,

And did numbers with your head,

And offered you an easy way,

To have a roof and a bed.

He also showed you a pinch of snow,

"Go on, just a little up the nose",

But he knew the well trodden track,

Where that one sniff eventually goes.

So you were injecting before you knew it,

And doing what had to be done,

Taking more than a dozen every night,

To earn the magical one.

But today you were given a hit,

And didn't know it was so pure,

And now he'll be disappointed,

He's lost such an easy score.

And as you lay there dying,

In a stinking Kings Cross loo,

Who do we blame for your death ?

And then what should we do ?

There's the not so humble grower,

Who nurtures the deadly flowers,

While the Mr. Bigs just get bigger,

Safe in their corrupted towers.

These are the real bastards,

They must have sold their soul,

Pedalling misery in our streets,

As they play the devil's role.

Let's not blame the politicians,

They can't all be ignorant mugs,

But why do they preach reform,

But are too scared to legalize drugs ?

But these words are too late,

For others and especially you,

As you lay there dying,

In that stinking Kings Cross loo.

Your final thought was of your Daddy,

And flying with him to the moon,

And I wish this wasn't the story,

Of the needle and the silvery spoon.

I guess it started at school really, you know - please write a poem for homework, that sort of stuff. Well, I found writing poetry relatively "easy" and the results were reasonably encouraging. So I did what every self respecting teenager would do - nothing. I basically didn't write another line for about twenty years. I then went on a Leadership course and we were encouraged to get in touch with "ourselves". As a result, one of the things I did was write a couple of poems, I showed them to a couple of friends and family and they foolishly encouraged me to continue writing. That was six years ago and what you see on this site is a result of an initial challenge (by Humphrey Armstrong, the course leader) and the subsequent encouragement from friends and family. (I have often wondered what could be achieved in this world if we all challenged and encouraged more often, especially our children). In 1998 I hooked up to the Internet and purchased a book "How to build your web-site in 24 hours". Four months (!) later, I had my first web-site up and running and waited for the mass of visitors to come and view my work. Of course, nothing happened and the counter increased every time I visited, but not much more. It was then I struck on the idea of writing poems for charity, because I had already started writing poems for friends and family's weddings, birthdays and anniversaries. I approached a couple of "Free Sites" to feature my site and was literally flooded with requests. So much so, we formed a loose group (Poets For People) of like minded poets who gave their time for charity. We did this for a couple of years but became increasingly frustrated with people who would request the poem, receive the poem and then we would hear nothing back whatsoever, not so much as a thank you. This became soul destroying after a while so I decided to "commercialize" the site and charge people up front (I then donate 25% of the proceeds to various charities around the world). This has worked really well and the popularity of the site is outstanding. A Gift Of Poetry has only been live for 6 months yet is attracting over 2000 visitors per day and is growing at about 10-15% every month ! )

Pretty normal stuff really. Born in 1958 in Northampton, England. Born in a council house but Mum and Dad bought their first house in 1960 (Mum still lives there today). Great parents, two great elder brothers, strong family environment. Went to Raeburn Road (Tin Tack) Primary, Parklands Primary, Cherry Orchard High School and Northampton Grammar School. Went off the rails a lot as a teenager and Dad died when I was only 15. A very painful experience but one that has bound the remaining family tightly together, even though we live so very far apart. (I emigrated from England to Australia in 1991, after marrying an Australian girl in 1985). Left school three weeks early (at 15) and started work the following Monday for Gelders Spetra, a European transport company. Have stayed in transport and logistics ever since and that has paid the bills (most of the time).

My poetry will never be critically acclaimed - I know and accept that. However, a lot of people seem to like my style and I see it as "everyman" poetry. I genuinely do try and write "from the heart" and know that when I pull a tear or a "ah-ha" then I have done OK. I also like to feel that maybe some of my poetry can help people and for example, that is one of the reasons I have Footprints as a featured poem on the site, as it may help someone realize the aftermath created by taking their own life.

What is your favourite subject and why do you write poems like you do?

A very good question and very hard to answer. I have not read a lot of other poets work, so I can safely say that I have not copied anyone's particular style. I will literally write a poem about anything, The Worm Ode is good proof of that statement ! I won't write a poem if it doesn't have anything to say, I must think of a dozen poems a week that I could write but discard the idea because they would have no real meaning or message. Poetry has a lot to do with emotion so I like a subject where that emotion is evident or easily aroused. For example, I wrote A Harbour View after being in Australia for a couple of years after realising that most Australians generally take for granted their wonderful country.

Best Movie?  One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest or It's A Wonderful Life (probably the latter)

Where do you live? Wombarra, New South Wales, Australia.

How old are you? 42 going on 17

Best book? Papillon.

Like to eat? 90% vegetarian but can't resist a barbeque.

Like to drink? Cabernet Sauvignon from the Coonawarra, South Australia.

Three wisest words? Everything in moderation.

Favourite pastimes? Writing. This website. Family stuff. Having a beer with good friends.

Most important things in life? Knowing what is important in life.

Bad Habits? Too many! Occasional cigar smoker, weekend drinker, love a bet.

Good Habits? Not doing the bad habits too often !

Proud Of? My children.

Not So Proud Of?  My stomach.

Regrets? Too few to mention (sorry Frank)

Worst Day? When Dad died.

Best Day? When my children were born.

Marital Status? Married with four children.

Favourite poem? Footprints or The 19 Year Old

Best TV show? The Simpsons

Reading at the moment? Access 2000 Programming for Dummies

Best regards, Allen

words from the heart

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