"How's it holding up" asked the snail.
"Can't you tell?"
"Not really, I'm a snail"
"You don't say"
"I don't like to race to conclusions either"
"Makes sense, guess we're not cut from the same cloth"
"What do you mean?"
"Suppose things are just a bit slower down here"
"Maybe because there's less of a breeze?"
"Yeh, but also I don't constantly feel like I'm hanging on by a thread"
"Must be nice"
"Why'd you say that?" asked the Peg in return.
"Feel like I've always got the weight of the world on my shoulders."
"You don't say, what's the mortgage on that thing anyway?"
"Mortgage?"
"Nevermind. How're things back at home?"
"Alright, just trying to balance it all is getting quite difficult."
"Are you taking the mick?"
"My life does feel like a joke at the moment"
"Feel like you're being hung out to dry?"
"Exactly, not like I've got eyes on the back of my head"
"I hear you."
The two continued to talk for the next few hours, wooden smiles slowly extending across their faces.
Category Archives: Poetry
April Poetry: A good read
He'd found himself
nestled between the pages
of a book again.
The grand ceilings
and gentle mutterings of which
vibrated through the wooden shelves he was leaning on had always comforted him.
These keeper of books had
existed long before him,
and they'd likely exist long after,
save for a fire...or worse.
At that point he'd become distracted by
the swaying of a summers dress,
carrying embers of the chaos that
existed outside the library walls.
The heat today was somewhat unbearable,
the books and archaic paintings gatekeeping
the cool air that drifted in between these walls.
He looked up from the hem,
her eyes meeting his for a fleeting second,
she seemed too focused for fools like
him,
driven by an inate sense of pride,
or at least that's what he'd told himself.
For all he knew,
quiet book dwellers were
far from her usual type.
Returning to the familiar feel of the crumpled pages,
his heart beat began to calm once more.
Gliding his finger across the wrinkled
edges was as close to physical connection
he'd come across in the past
24 hours.
A book could hardly reject it's reader,
at least not verbally,
an experience he'd hardly want to
live out again.
One was enough embarrassment to last
a lifetime.
If only he'd been as good with words back then
as he was now,
not that it'd matter in the slightest.
He'd have still failed to
squeak out a retort even if he'd
had had an Oxford English Dictionary at hand.
Anyway, it wouldn't have been gentlemanly
to bark back,
he was better than that,
or so he'd told himself during the
late hours of night.
March Poetry: We Exist
We exist on the periphery.
The road less travelled,
where the sheep tend to sleep,
and the cows will always graze.
The sun still shines here
like a cheap jacket,
warm but not fulfilling.
We exist on the edge.
Where shadows are cast,
the wind still blows here
its face unseen
but always felt.
I exist on the last ledge of mankind.
Where one step would see me drift off
into a black abyss,
flying past stars that only exist
in blurry photos,
ones printed in big textbooks
where people try and understand
the painted world around them,
moments before the artist
swaps the canvas,
and we all must start again.
We exist on the periphery.
January Poetry: Wooden Smiles
Smiles across the table
felt different,
more lines to count
between the ripples in the bark.
They had once grown tall
reaching for the sun,
realising it was not heat they were after
but warmth.
One found low down on the Forrest floor
where leaves had
began to wither and
yellow.
Light breaking
through the canopy,
beams more beautiful
to acknowledge
than the walls of light above.
Their smiles would speak of stories
most of which were the
ones they told before,
more and more unaware
that the remaining few that were so much
harder to share.
Their walls like the canopy
would grow thick and dense,
blocking out the light that was
always there.
From then on we let the beams through
and warmth with it,
allowing that which lay down below
the best chance to grow.
January Poetry: The Workyard Boat
I had rarely felt.
Just as a boat stuck in a work yard would feel.
Rust,
small puddles
all randomly collected on this
long forgotten vessel.
It had once begun its life existing among the seas.
The Sea was real.
It was almost certain of it.
Yet,
spatterings were the only whispers it had ever
heard of its existence.
Distant memories only scribed onto its keel,
faded paint its own cave drawings.
The other boats had been and gone.
News of their voyage
lost against the shores,
where the sand would lap up various tales,
keeping it all unto itself.
The beach was good at holding on.
The boat would sit there suspended for many moons to come,
or at least that's what it had thought.
(Inspired by Late – Nils Frahm)
December Poetry: last day on the job
He'd hung up his boots,
unsure of where he fit against
the modern world.
Damn, he's not sure when he'd last felt one with it.
Time had a funny way of seeming real slow
but real fast all at once.
A puzzle piece led astray,
too far for whoever was putting together
the big picture
to lean over and grab.
He didn't mind the outskirts though,
where people were less,
fewer objects to fall into
and even less things to eat you alive.
A hat and pistol,
two items that'd sure stuck by him
the last few decades,
and he by them.
Late nights spent cleaning out the barrel,
polishing the chambers,
yet he hadn't shot anything more than a rattle snake
since he'd first wrapped his fingers round it.
Even timid Tom down at station 302
had shot a mountain lion.
"Better to have it and not use it than the other way around" his daddy use to told him.
Suppose the old man was right.
He'd be smiling up there knowing so.
This lowly trash can seemed like the right place
to leave the two,
a whole heap a nothing
since he'd handed in his badge.
Not a tear in his eye,
he wasn't one for big feelings,
wasn't big on anything in particular
if he was being honest.
Life had all but drained away,
just in time to spend his retirement years.
Life was funny like that some times.
Days ahead were for sipping on a cold one
in the sun
with nothing else on his mind.
At least that was the plan.
He didn't know what to make of it all,
but that didn't bother him,
he'd have plenty time to dwell on it.
As he walked away,
the floor beneath him felt lighter as
a single tear started to form in his eye.
A childhood spent playing
cowboys and Indians
was his sole thought in that moment.
Just like that,
a drink on his porch didn't sound too bad after all.
December Poetry: Sandy Wings
A bird stood in sand
is a confused creature.
Unsure of the waves ahead,
too tired to explore the grass beyond.
A sort of limbo.
Resting
while grains of sand
slowly mount on its webbed feet.
A subtle weight that goes
unnoticed,
yet soon becomes
irritating.
Over time the bird would grow to hate the substance.
Its head doesn't twitch.
Unbothered by the wind
it could gently handle,
deciding to greet it's impact instead.
Peace was no longer part of its life,
a distant memory of it's nest days.
Even flight was lost.
Not a freedom,
but a disdain for vast heights
and even bigger drops.
The bird stood in the sand,
unmoving.
October Poetry: Tunisian Waters
The surface
was a series of small
mountain tops,
each less summitable
than the other.
A brief moment of existence,
a collection of fleeting moments.
The sun translated onto
a rippled ocean floor
where fish would embrace
the flashes of the big light in the sky.
Humans would try and mimic this,
falling short of truly acknowledging
it's power.
Stood in the shallow waters,
instead of swimming out
to where the earth's pull
became less obvious,
unable to enjoy
the feeling of flight.
October Poetry: The Human Towel
Borrowing someone's towel is as human as it gets,
Each other's basic recognition that sleeping wet is simply no fun,
Not to mention getting your clothes wet.
A premonition between the two that an intimacy will be shared.
The Human Towel exchange is a magical thing,
Sparsely shared,
Especially now-a-days.
When I'm older I want my towel handovers to be fun.
A nice moment shared when grabbing a 1998 Wimbledon towel from the other person,
A simple chuckle as they read the year on the frilly textile,
Before rubbing it all over their naked bodies like the bar of soap before it.
Share more towels,
If you can
Although not too many
As there are nasty things floating about.
June Poetry: Words On York
The history was palatable,
From the grass tucked between the cobbled streets,
to the cold faces of men
scribed onto the Minister walls.
It wasn't the first time that men managed to clamber onto
history through the labour
of other men.
The toil of forgotten souls who
spent days carving cold stone,
only for those inside to look
to the sky in search of theirs.
Friendly voices would echo against the cavernous walls of the Minister,
thousands of hours etched into sounds that would leap out onto the ears of eager-minded travellers.
"The word for apple is also the word for fruit in Latin",
beckoned one of the more lively tour guides,
another simple mistake that had managed to perch itself within culture for centuries.
Decades of musical references at once dispelled by a tentative historian,
his only hope be that more people spread the same message.
Upon entering,
One of the Fathers would utter words
in a moment of prayer,
people would sit in silence,
returning to childhood experiences when
older people were the voice of reason,
all of whom were looking for one small
moment to let go of responsibilities
and forget the family sat next to them,
most of whom were dependent on their strength
and guidance.
As the train drifted downwards,
the constraints would slowly fall back into position,
an unexplored city now less enigmatic,
a string of kind people
and good coffee
to thank.
wear shoes, write poems 