marcus-lane
English
My roots are in the West of England. / / I write infrequently, when the mood takes me. You'll find here a collection of the romantic, the nostalgic, the inspirational, the humorous and the downright trivial. / / I enjoy reading beautiful language that satisfies the tongue. I strive to produce it myself, and succeed on rare occasions. / / Favourite 20th Century poets: Seamus Heaney, Philip Larkin, Dylan Thomas and Ted Hughes. / / At the time of editing I haven't written for over a year. (Inspiration welcome!! Find me at [email protected])
A dry desert wind
Made the stinging sand swirl,
And the dense dunes drift
Vision blurred
Words choked
Speechless
Returning brings dreams of cool water
Just out of reach.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
She peels each wafered layer
To expose the next.
Bitter tears lie at her heart.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
Parasitic friend,
Your promises to me were
Laced with poisoned breath.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
We sit cross-legged in the story corner
Breathing faint ammonia smells.
Table chants and hymns echo through corridor acoustics,
All creatures great and small.
We are wedged in a tangle of podgy thighs,
Grazed knees, scabs and warts.
And Anthony is sitting alone again
Where he can do no harm.
Yet he said he would bring it, and bring it he has.
Its tiny white head is nosing over
The hem of his pocket,
Whiskers a-twitch and
Eyes like tiny blood blisters ripe for popping.
A shudder of shivering whispers and
Nervous heads are half turned:
Yes, Anthony is smiling his special smile.
Mrs Lloyd has found the page,
My lids are squeezed tight
As I urge my mind to follow her away
From here, away from now.
For playtime will be ****** once again.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
Gold tipped crocus spears
Pierce the frost-skinned garden's heart:
Winter lies bleeding
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
Spring rejoices to
The trumpeting daffodils'
Triumphant fanfare
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
A limerick writer from Kent
Found his pencil all crooked and bent.
Though ****** licked and chewed,
It still remained skewed,
(Even stretched to its fullest extent).
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:19 AM UTC
You didn't get a valentine
Nor a supermarket rose,
We never sipped that vintage wine
Or read romantic prose.
You left before I told you,
I threw away my chance
To have you and to hold you:
I’m ******* at romance.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:16 AM UTC
The end was tranquil
Her eyes remained open wide
To mirror my tears
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:16 AM UTC
My Vellum
Alluring and demure
In your virginity
Never yet
Creased nor crumpled
Your tight young corners
Remain stiff and pert
In their newness
Your long lithe sides
Tense for my careful touch
Lest blood be spilt
My gold nib
I dip
In midnight ink
Piercing its surface skin
And lift
It drips
One
Two
Black
Secrets
Back to their bottle
My hand is poised
Over your pristine smoothness
And with calm precision
I carve broad majuscules
That twist and cut
To hairlines of breathtaking
Intimate intricacy
Quick teasing serifs
Long lingering descenders
Strokes of tactile
Joy
Then stand back
Empty
In wonder at
Your calligraphic beauty
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:16 AM UTC