She dived into the water not knowing what lay below, but the fun was in not knowing; the unexpected. So much of her life had been planned. Meticulous. That’s how she would describe her childhood, which was sad. She chased chaos, almost threw herself at it. She knew why, which made the act less crazy. Or so she had convinced herself. Emerged in the deep blue she was safe again, something she had unfortunately had to learn on her own. Her parents were never absent, yet at the same time they weren’t exactly present. Floating there her eyes shut waiting for some form of contact. A nibble from a fish Or the brushing past of a shark. Maybe the Sea wasn’t the right place to look for embrace.
Tag Archives: Abstract Poetry
May Poetry: what does love sound like?
What does love sound like? He asked Recalling a series of smiles and intense eye contact that would often beckon back and forth between the two. They’d sit there for hours letting the shadow move across the raggedy carpet that clearly needing changing but was clinging on for dear life. So often love didn’t Sound like anything. Perhaps the gentle breeze or the distant conversations from passers-by as they rested their heads on each others shoulders. A comfortable silence, One which allowed them to observe the world together without saying a word. It was a chance to let their Mouths rest Whilst their bodies constantly communicated feelings of that were too complicated to describe, those feelings would hang there, suspended like drawings in an art gallery conveying so much in the confined space of the frame. As they sat there taking in the view of the city they were, for a moment or two belonging to the beautiful landscape themselves. If only someone had recognised the painting they were living out, things may have stayed the same.
April Poetry: The Lady And The Robin
We wonder.
Wondered.
Into the abyss,
short sighted about the potential future
off behind that shrub.
The one that the squirrel just hurried into.
Chewing that strawberry that he’d been given by that kind lady
with the polka dot skirt,
that was long enough to establish her as a woman past her prime.
Yet how is it that she’s the happiest she’s ever been now.
Smiling more than ever before,
with the few years left that no longer held such a weight over
her thoughts.
She was finally able to walk the park she used to as a child
with the same careless attitude,
where she could feed the local wildlife fruit that she had brought with her.
She took another out of her bag.
A robin twisted his head sideways in order to see what
fruit she was now brandishing.
He could tell she was friendly human,
simply by her hand,
and that she’d had a pet in her life,
probably a dog by the looks of the wear
to her right hand.
And that she used to cry a lot.
Maybe it’s because she had just lost a loved one,
but he wasn’t 100% sure on that one.
Needless to stay
she was friendly,
even if she was hurt.
Although the beckoning smile on her face said otherwise.
He swooped down onto her hand,
twitching his head
left, right
up and down,
trying to get a better look how to of approach the grape.
It’d been months since he’d had a grape.
For some reason they were few and far between
in this part of the world.
Pecking at the fruit,
the inside flesh finally showed.
Juicy and happy
The bird tilted his head back yet again
gulping down the sweet clumps
of grape.
He was a pleased Robin.
And she was pleased that he was pleased.
‘How I wish you could see this’,
she wondered to herself.
Yet he could,
he’s the one writing this.
April Poetry: That forgetful Memory
A water droplet so shallow, but deep like a ravine, echoes dance across a shore like the future daughter you never had. Promises of a smile as you look down at that curious and gentle creature you built, gone. In an instant. These few words had ripped across time her heart divided by a few moments of movement on your lips. A dance that normally had her awaiting your every word but only causes hurt now. A dance no longer wanted. A dance no longer cared for. A dance no longer needed. A trio all full of hugs felt by each other. A strong circle of those you will devote the rest of your time to. These three would hold hands and return home to the feeling of love. A happy home that although square, felt like a bubble. Something encapsulating and protective but ever so vulnerable. All it’d take is for something sharp for it to pop. Some sharp words perhaps? I know I’d rather not be the one to find out. Keep that thought, that memory burnt in the back of your mind So every time you think of forgetting, simply peer into the ashes in the back of your head.
April Poetry: Losing Time
Where had the time gone? He hadn’t lost it down the side of the sofa, joining the plethora of other pound coins which had been hiding there. He hadn’t accidentally thrown it away like that pair of football boots all those years ago. He hadn’t done either of those things yet he still couldn’t understand where it had gone. Most would stop looking, given up the search and rightly so, no one had ever found it again, or not that he’d heard of. Although something inside of him didn’t like the idea of giving up. It seemed wrong. even if it was the common route. He looked at his watch as if though it would speak back to him. He thought himself silly, the quiet ticking the only reply he was expecting. The room had an eeriness to it, the objects around him becoming blurrier by the second. They had lost meaning. He couldn’t recognise any of them, suddenly feeling like a stranger in his own house. He felt like he belonged less than they did. The objects sat there on their shelves, contempt with the days passing by with no sign of aging. No change from the moment they were placed there. Then he glanced at something that he did recognise. An old friend. The aloe vera growing on the windowsill. It had seen better days and could have done with some watering. The only other thing in this room that been neglected and had the signs to prove it, Green and dismayed like an old person staring out the window of a retirement home, longing for a change in their monotonous routine of tablets and bingo. Obviously, the plant could not play such games, but if did, it would have definitely been a snakes and ladders fan. The plant was closer to the human currently observing them, than the porcelain dog that had not sniffed once since it had sat on that bookcase. Which by nature, made it very un-dog-like. It was thanks to time that the human had once again taken a liking to the aloe vera perched on the windowsill. Forgetting all about the fact that he was lost, he filled a glass of water, gently pouring it onto the very thirsty friend of his.
Stockroom Memories
red and white nike boxes
litter the shelves around me
original pirate material on repeat
I yet again zip up my ACG
coach jacket ready to ascend the
metal stairs.
It’s dinner time.
Another crisp Manchester afternoon
greets me as I step outside onto
the slanted cobbled street.
People walk about in hooded jackets
seeking refuge from the cold.
“Porky Pigs?”
I got a nod back
looks like roast is back on the menu
walking past shops and down the
sidestreets.
That kitchen utensil shops open
as per usual but once again
no one’s in it
A familiar laugh as we pass
“Assman”, what a name,
what a shop.
Almost there, a familiar line outside
the embassy next door,
impatient looks greet us as we
take a left into Porkies
avoiding politics
and embracing the woft of meat
coming from behind the counter.
That little boy
What ever happened to that little boy?
The one who used to sit
on those set of swings
near almost every day.
The one that used to walk
around with that red balloon
making innocent remarks about
the world and the strange
looking people who inhabited it.
The one who dropped his ice cream
that sunny day in June
but did not shed a single tear
yet laughed so profoundly
that every adult around him either
stared in bewilderment
or laughed along with him.
The one who had a ladybird land on him
and set him off crying
but not out of fear
yet the beauty of such a tiny creature
and it place on this great green earth.
“Apparently he grew up”
“Oh no, don’t say that.”
Life of Sin
In this life full of sin
There is no one way
Journey
no one way road
that one can travel
especially alone.
If one does
they will soon realise
how futile their footsteps are
like any imprint or
work of art on sand
or even out of sand,
that is temporary.
It is temporary
A fleeting thought
A has-been.
Someone who looks at the sky
and scrunches their face
at the clouds formations.
They will pass almost
as quickly
as you
so make sure your companions
on this equally as fraught road
are as aware as you.
Perhaps show them
these set of lines
in hopes that it’ll
have a profound effect
on them
as it did to the person
who pieced these words
together in order
to form a semblance of
thought.
An idea that did
not guarantee the
“success”
of the person who wrote
this
yet gave them a fighting chance.
In this life of Sin
there is no set path
so make sure your thoughts
are as Sturdy as
the rocks you place your feet on.
Because when they sink
so does your head
the vessel that kept
your thoughts
afloat.
An Uncoloured World
The colouring pencil in his hand
looked new.
The colour didn’t matter.
He lay there
figuring out which part of the Globe
to paint next.
He scratched his head
He had to be sure
Whatever he filled in the next needed to be right
The right portion of the world
himself
another culture
another hobby
he wanted to understand
to learn
to discover
because that is life
at least his life
One that was currently in need
of a new pencil
and not a new holder
a common misunderstanding
but a drastic one.
Afterall
he was the only one who
could hold the pencil.
Otherwise he would never
recognise the world he had coloured.
Trapped Outside a Water Well
I have a lot
of love
to show this world
and the various
moving pieces
that Crawl its surface
but sometimes I can’t
tap into it
Staring into a Well
that I know
that I can see
is full of water
but I cannot access it.
My mind simply does not
want me to
and neither does my body.
I reach a hand out
only to watch my fingers
pass through it
droplets trickling off my
once dry fingers
with only the occasional
spec of water to prove
the Wells existence.
I look down in dismay
only for someone
to tap me on the shoulder
a friendly face
a warm smile
and what seems like a
spec of hope
more abstract that
than the droplets that
ran off my hand earlier
yet so much more tangible.
A warmth so present
I can feel it against my skin.
A future of feelings
made possible once again.
wear shoes, write poems 