Steve Garside




In this thousand dollar light

you look like you could nudge

your eye under the rim

of a crosswire sight.

In this thousand dollar light

your forehead lends

a mean grenade sheen - 

borrows a brow of stormcloud

to syringe this mercury smile switch

for someone else in their million dollar day.



The Oldest Trick


I sit; simmering.

My fingers shouldering

the nib across this page.


Left to right

left to right

left to right

keeping to the line.


If there is no break 

I will cross magnificent

to the other side.

If the paper is truly

from a farmed tree

then it is pure - not pulp - 


nothing up its sleeve of bark

to blow a shiver of leaves over

my neighbour’s path


I write a hundred times - 

punctuating the page

for a reason spooled 

in a news reel - 

I am an animal

I am an animal

I am an animal

Full stop.




He picked them from a nearby field unseen -

mid-afternoon while churchtower shadows grew.


Empty bag stuffed into his pocket, with a wink

he was gone into the sun; hiding under hazelnut trees.


As the dogs dozed by the outside sink, and the cats’ 

patience measured seconds with their snaking tails  


he returned; with a bagful. Leaning over to tip their weight,

the peaches tumbled out, filling the washing up bowl.


Their skins cooling in the shade of the lemon tree,

we sifted through the ripe fruit, tossing one or two aside,


then gathered the rest; spread the dining room table inside -

those peaches compliment his red wine like moments do in time.


Every year they fill our car with love, as the hour becomes the hour,

in August, all roads home are hot and the peaches always turn sour.



The Paper Trees

Flattering the sound of streams

in folds of breeze; the paper trees.

Equidistant lines of fifty in a field -

sunlight geo-divided by their honest bark.


No tree ever lied until brought down 

and volume bound for another light.


And yet; cutlery is table set down

all over towns for the company of night.

So I smile, not needing to complete this rhyme

because the invisible is already perfect.




We sat with the sun on our backs.

I'd not changed a bit; you said you liked that.


Khaki somehow, I've never grown out of -

though I no longer run with bricks in a rucksack.

Young men on mountain bikes pass; a dog walker dips 

with a bag. The Lake, absorbing the morning, cradles the sky. 

I linger most days in thought of you I say;

I linger most days in thought.

Copyright © 2010 Steve Garside

Steve Garside is a self taught visual artist, poet and writer. His poetry has been published in the UK and US and he has written poetry for major charity events.

Steve has read his work on local and national UK radio, and has been filmed reading his poetry written specifically for the recent floods in Pakistan.

Steve’s background has involved serving with the British Armed Forces and more recently, a lengthy career in health and social care services.

He lives in Rochdale, Lancashire, England.