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.
Category Archives: Poetry
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.
June Poetry: Solace In Silence
The quiet times were always the loudest.
The grass would whisper,
the trees would coddle together,
preparing a surprise for the
humans' senses,
protecting the sun from
vengeful eyes
with its patchy branches.
Specks of light would
rush through,
a result of the trees position
among the sea of tall grass.
Both would bend to the wind,
days spent admiring the power
of a being that only
existed in passing,
reflecting on its fallen members
in a jovial compassion.
Neither the grass or the tree
would linger in its disposition.
The sun would shine regardless.
March Poetry: Last Bus Ride In Manchester
I found a ticket in my
coat pocket the other
day.
It was a bus ticket
from Manchester.
I’d paid cash.
"Piccadilly,
where dreams go to die".
Lots of things happen there
some good
some bad
all rad?
My bad
Hey dad …
I’ll stop now.
I don’t exactly miss that bus,
its shuddering presence,
the questionably warm back seats of the lower deck.
They'd always smell like a years-worth of engine fumes,
stored away into the
hard wearing abstract pattern.
That
or an ill-kept Henry Hoover,
which I suppose is a small price to pay for comfort,
especially when considering the chilly temperatures of Manchester's winter.
The bus ticket was probably one of
the last things I bought in that city.
Although I’ll no doubt buy more in future,
chugging up and down the surprisingly straight
Oxford Road,
with it's mixture of grandiose and less-than-grand architecture plotted along
somewhat randomly.
Buses are an interesting place,
Reminds you how slow life can be
when you’re stuck in a traffic jam with
everyone.
All suspended in thought … well
not all, but most.
Some would rather shout about it,
announcing their thoughts out loud
hoping someone will join in,
which they seldom do
if they have any sense.
Let bygones be bygones.
and let people who shout on
buses do their thing.
Good rules to go by in life.
Here’s to the next bus journey I inevitably take in Manchester because of an unsurprisingly 'sudden' downpour.
wear shoes, write poems 