Ecstatic, an emerald green, shone so bright, but your vision remained unimpaired. A soft white noise echoed in the dark so unheard that desperate for some recognition, decided to do the most monstrous things. A creature still and breathing eyes fixed on a spot behind so looking through you, it ignored all the pain and red flesh that bridged the gap between it and its target. A smile crawled up onto your face unworried by the danger ahead. Too many scars had left you numb to the lifeless eyes that had looked through you all your life.
Tag Archives: Poetry
May Poetry: A touch of Sea Water
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.
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.
That Misplaced Door
I’d been walking up the muddy track for a while,
beautiful vistas here and there
coupled with a big drop off
just metres next to me.
Most things in life had that balance
Between beauty and death.
Up further along I had spotted
A wooden thing
Just stood there.
It didn’t belong there
Or at least not
In a natural sense of the term.
Unlike the flowers and trees that existed around it
That for-one-reason-or-another,
chose that particular spot
to live out the rest of its life,
this,
had had no choice of its own.
I mean how could it?
An inanimate object as such,
I can’t even say it chose to look the way it did.
No,
That was up to the designer
or in this case,
the wood worker.
I was closer to it now
the distance between it and I
a matter of centimetres.
A door.
It was a door.
A nice door at that,
one that had patinaed
and aged through
its intended use.
Unfortunately for this door,
It had lost one key feature.
Either,
through the perils of time
or the uncanny strength of one individual.
Nevertheless, this door
was undoubtedly missing a handle.
In its place,
a chain.
A door,
chained shut.
Which as uninviting as that may seem,
had a certain warmth about it.
Like an old friend or relative.
Maybe that was due to the backdrop,
a cacophony of plants and branches that
completely changed my perception of this piece of wood.
If anything,
this large piece of wood was cousins with
the trees that grew beside it.
The stone parked at the bottom of the door
also did not add to the overall
welcoming nature of this inanimate object.
Yet again,
it still filled me with warmth.
I’d have loved to have met the owner.
Not of the ground that lay behind the entrance,
but to the opening itself.
Of course, I would have asked him politely,
Not knowing the nature of the man who owned this door.
Although the chains and rock had
suggested he wasn’t a friendly man,
or that perhaps he was and that he was keeping
those who were not so friendly,
Out.
Like most of us who live day-to-day,
we can often feel misplaced.
But when we do,
we will often
do something about it.
On the other hand,
this door,
which in one way,
can only be described as misplaced,
simply must stand there,
in its awkwardness and all.
Unlikely to be opened,
used,
touched,
man-handled.
So if ever you are feeling
Misplaced.
Whether that be in a
literal
or
metaphorical
sense.
Just be glad,
you’re not this door.
Next Up London Waterloo
I am not the first person to dislike London. Frankly, any Londoner who gets the tube on the daily Must think much worse of the city. Jumbling cursives in their head of about the person next to them Who once again lacks general hygiene, An unfortunately recurring theme in the realms of public transport, Especially in the big city. I recognise that I am nowhere near the first person to hold disdain towards the large concrete jungle. Nor am I the first person to mildly enjoy it, I am definitely not the first to fall in love with it. A quiet, mid-afternoon commute leaves me calmly scrambling towards The underground at Waterloo. A quick 10-minute ride to London Bridge, Followed by a short walk, And there I am, Situated south of the river In recently-gentrified Bermondsey. Tennis courts to your right, White men in spectacles reading short novels in the park to your left. Artisan shops and pizza houses sprinkled here and there, The walk is in fact an enjoyable one. It feels quaint, An effect that people pay handsomely for in the big city. Interesting how people who live somewhere big are always searching for somewhere That feels small. Like the human mind needs a sanctuary from the bright lights and grotesque buildings. I arrive at my friends. Well, not quite arrive as I signal up that I’m here. Within a minute I have gone from scurrying the concrete streets to floating up amongst the clouds. A slight exaggeration, yet it is easy to feel such a way. Pleasantries aside, I head towards his balcony. A view of London that not many people are lucky enough to see. High up, you feel amongst the buildings. They no longer seem so daunting, The playing field has been levelled. Whilst you’re not a twenty thousand tonne combination of glass and concrete You’re not far off. The Shard sits about a kilometre down the road, Tower bridge off to your right And London Eye twirls in front of you. A set of symbols, recognised around the globe, Are now your playground. What’s stopping you from moving the Gherkin south of the river? Sure, it’d confuse the hell out of people But they’d surely move on, The maps would get updated, People at google would sort it out in a heartbeat, Perhaps the old paper tourist maps would suffer but A bit of change was due. What’s the fun in a city that never changes? It’s easy to enjoy London from a spacious balcony with a nice view. You don’t have to worry about rent prices, People don’t whizz by you at double the speed, You can’t hear the screeching of old tube lines, You don’t see men in suits on their way to client meetings, You pay attention to it all or nothing at all. The choice is yours. I like London these days. I like how warm it is. I like how pretty is. I like how calm it is. That is London, right?
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.
A week back in Manneh
Old habbits
Old friends
grey clouds
a few drinks
neither here nor there
some new faces
but old feelings
a sense of want
a brave face
arriving at a destination
where the train is stood still
waiting for the opportuninty
to chug along the tracks
passing red brick buildings
that have stood complacent
for many a decade
this train was full of passengers
all eager to get back home
after being away
for what seemed to be like a lifetime.
wha would they return to?
a semblance of their old life
or a chance to start anew.
a smile greeted them
that had never left
an aura that maintained
during a winter
embers ready to be welcomed
by the fresh air that
swayed about the damp
concrete streets of manchester
wear shoes, write poems 