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: Reflective 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.
Don’t Live life Lost
Live a lost life
Is a life full of darkness
No way out
Your mind keeps you down
Stressed out
Trying to figure out
What you’re about
But how can you find out
When your vision
Is neither here nor there
Focus on a point
And walk towards it
Scratch that
Run
Sprint
With full speed
Like the steps underneath your feet are guaranteed
Like the cement of a sidewalk
Or the sound of pages in a book.
You’ll find out what these things mean
When you can see the ground beneath
Your feet.
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.
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
birmingham new street station
a life of insignificance
a life of deadlines
and dead eyes
peering into their phone
waiting for some form of good news
a release of endorphins
that’ll curl their lip upwards
in an attempt to prove to others
that they are in fact human.
Their heads constantly facing downwards
as if waiting for the ground to swallow
them up.
Yet the ground stays still
like it always did
and seems to do these days
the most stable thing in their lives
seems to be inanimate
grey
and trodden on
yet they constantly shake around
in thought
hoping they land on one
happy idea
to carry them back home
from this artifically lit
underground train track.
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.
wear shoes, write poems 