Hello. My name is Nick Goodall.

"On and on and on"

They scribble in Net Cafés, they mutter in old sheds,

With coffee or with rhubarb, wriggling word worms in their heads,

To chase big competitions, and longing to be read

Oh the ache, no mistake, of a poet’s grand ambition

They wobble onto platforms with tremulous grace,

Reciting all their verses all over the place,

In hopes of a smattering of claps to their face

And a whiff of some passing submission.

They’re posting on Substack, they’re X-ing in rage,

They polish their couplets, and prep for the stage,

Their chapbooks for sale have words on every page

All lovingly hand-stapled glory.

On and on and on again!

They gesture and gasp with poetic disdain,

Then check if they’re trending or mentioned by name

Yes it’s on and it’s on and it’s on again!

Oh praise me, applaud me, please admire my form,

Declare me subversive, or cutting, or warm,

I’ll curtsy ironically into the storm

Pretending I don’t need the cheering.

But frankly I do — it’s my literary glue,

I need you to gasp at my faux déjà vu,

To nod at my sorrow and marvel it’s true,

While I bask in your cultured endearing.

On and on and on again!

With sonnets and stanzas I strive to attain

A moment of worth in a world that’s insane —

So it’s on and it’s on and it’s on again!

So here’s to the poets who prattle and pine,

Who rhyme to be loved and who ache to define

A world that ignores them in orderly line

We perform… then we sulk… existentially.

On and on and on again!

With borrowed emotion and overused pain,

We scribble, submit, and submit it again

Yes it’s on and it’s on and it’s on again!

Broadstairs, August 2025

"Holding Out'

While they waited for his dog to die

She placed her life on pause

A spark of life 'hind milky eyes

Weekend trips to old Warsaw

While the bugger's endless tries

In Rugby had become a chore

While she waited for his man to die

She dreamt of turning over leaves

Of copper, gold and alibis

and wiled away the time they thieved

And fantasised

life in St Ives

Before she joined them through that final door.

Marylebone, June 2025

"This is David Dunn"

Six months after David Dunn

Stacked cricket bats and golf clubs

Walking sticks and five or so

silent sticky radios

Not a man who drank in pubs

The remains of David, done.

Nothing much was left behind
Once the flocking carrion crows
Flew away with all that shone
leaving the condolence card
sent by his chiropodist,
by the photo of his bridge.

His study has been left untouched
By those who do not care at all

for civil engineering or
fading holiday souvenirs
"The Steel designer's manual"
"Out and about in Monmouthshire".

Sherington, May 2025