I have been writing poetry for more than 25 years, since a particularly good English teacher showed me the wonders of it (thanks, Dad!).

My writing is sometimes cheeky, sometimes flowery or romantic and oftentimes none of these things! Below is a small selection; to see more, please check out my blog, here.

Some of my poetry can be found on social media under the moniker 'The Breaking Bard'.

I also work to commission; contact me for more details.


In my eye there is a doorway,
It towers above, below, around.
The doors are old oak and a metre in width
And when moved, they make not a sound.
Yet they lead to a world even greater, it seems,
Where whatever you think can go to extremes;
With lasers and dinosaurs side by side,
Wind-surfing monkeys who ride on the tide,
Where a snail can climb on the Tour Eiffel
nd break it in two with the weight of its shell.
This is the place where pain doesn't hurt,
You don't fall 'til you see there's no ground;
Where cars chase dogs and cucumbers talk
And big buildings with gargoyles walk 'round.
This is the place you can blast into space
Whenever you cough or you sneeze;
This is the place where you don't have a face
And mad people DON'T talk to trees.
This is where giants are just garden gnomes
And amoebas live in small mobile homes
But although it is fun to go there and hide,
You must be careful not to get trapped inside.
It belongs to me and I belong to it,
No-one can enter (of their own accord).
This is the place where I like to sit,
Relax, and with its contents rapport.
Yes, in my eye, a doorway is there
And to this you should give some pause;
That on the oak door a red sign says 'BEWARE'.

Do you have the same sign on yours? 

The Purple People

The meaning of life is to laugh and to belch,

To eat, drink and have a good time,

To have parties, get pissed,

Love God if you wish

And make all of your own poems rhyme.

If you want to.  


All poetry the property of Andrew Jame Deane

Lady's Thimble

My love is like a ring o' bells,
'Tis hardy, strong and true,
And every time these squills do nod,
I always think of you.
If left unchecked, 'twill only grow
To cover ground unseen
And prettify our harebell wood
With flowers blue and green.
A potent cure for spider bites
Or giving dreamless sleep,
Bellbottles are what my heart wears 
And our love's forest, keep.
A sign of my humility, seen by falcon up above;
My constancy and gratitude and everlasting love.


With eyelids shut, the world seems red,
The light is bright and glorious;
His hands are crossed beneath his head
The mood is high, harmonious.
Against his back, the grass feels soft
And buzzing flies flit past his ear,
As birds caw lazy cries aloft
He drifts in drowseland, comfy here.
Faint calls from children as they play;
A snuffling dog whuffs gently by.
He dreams there were no end today
To the sun's warmth - his lullaby.


The hypocrisy of this democracy
Is not a shock to see but is a mockery;
False government doesn’t deserve to be
Supported when it should serve the people
But instead makes fools of you and me -
Takes fleshy pounds for their high society -
And gives chains when it should let us be
Not serfs nor slaves but a people, free.
Supposedly ruled for the greater good,
We find that there’s no Robin Hood –
No Che Guevara to be our saviour –
No instigation or resolution
To our desperate desire for revolution;
Though sorely needed, bad seeds aren’t weeded
And our cries for just change go unheeded.
Where the needs of the few trump the needs of the many
And the rich simply take the poor’s last penny.
When we feel on our necks the legal crime
Of fattened, false government’s grinding heel,
It’s time to climb up from the grime
And break the cage of their stealing wheel.


Copper-striped silver ball amongst emerald blades,
Fur wafting gently in the breeze,
The cat curls small in drifting shade,
As golden orb passes over trees.


I want to wear armour and wield a great axe,
Lead pretty maidens along moonlit tracks;
Quest for great truths and stand up for the meek,
Defend law and justice, be strong for the weak.
Swords and horses, damsels in distress,
Coats of arms on barding, helmets with crests.
I live in a world without chivalry or honour -
I shall take these things
And they will be MY armour.

My Mum Doesn't Like My Poetry

My Mum says my poems are horrible;
Surrealism just makes her fume.
She thinks I should write about swimming pools,
Brandy, family and perfume;
Chocolate, photos - things like that -
Cigarettes, flowers, friends and cats;
Eating out and reading books,
Little houses with lots of nooks,
Candles and balloons, things favoured by her;
Take all her likes and write them on paper.
Then she will find my poetry great,
Not ask me about my mind's poor state.
If I include these things for Mater,
She'll save the poem and read it later.
So here you are, Ma, all your faves in a stew.
I've written a nice poem, just for you.

I Wish I Was a Dragon

I wish I was a dragon...

They are noble, I wish I was.

They are intelligent, I wish I was.

They are beautiful, I wish I was.

They have scales, I wish I did.

They have claws, I wish I did.

They have wings, I wish I did.

They can breathe fire, I wish I could.

I'm an arsonist.


If our lives were a garden, I would be your oak; protecting you, my sweet, pink rose from weeds that may you choke.

If our lives were a desert, my spring would be you; preserving life and giving hope and making old things new.

If our lives were up in space, then you would be my moon - and I would be your sun, my love.

I hope I see you soon.