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Jack Shannon Feb 2019
This is a happy poem.

It exists because I say it does.

You may be asking yourself, ‘But this does not follow the correct syntactical, structural or grammatical elements of formalised poetry. How, therefore, is this a poem?’

To which I would I would reply

This is a poem.

You may also be asking yourself ‘But this ‘poem’ contains no witticisms, no joyful rumination on pre-pubescent anecdotes nor even wistful dreams of improved quality of life. How, therefore, is this happy?’

To which I would reply

This is happy

You may find yourself pondering further on the question, ‘if this is neither a poem, nor is it particularly happy, then for what artistic purpose has this author decided to consciously mislead the respective audiences into believing that this piece of writing would A) be a poem and B) be happy?’

To which I would reply

Huh.

Fair point.
I’m not even sure if this is a happy poem or not, and I just wrote the ****** thing
Jack Shannon Dec 2018
Write a poem
2. No seriously write a poem
3. Refer to step 1
4. Draw a mind map about things you think of
5. Draw a mind map about things you think of other than her
6. Give in to the fact the poem is going to be about her
7. Decide on what type of poem it's going to be
8. Work out how this one will be different from the other 29 free form poems you've written
9. Structure the meaning
10. Cut out that bit about love
11.Cut out that bit about ***
12. Change the meaning of the poem that you tried to structure in step 9
13. Make the poem less depressing 14. Scrap the joke about salad dressing
15. Stop forcing rhymes
16. Scrap everything that is trying to force comedy
17. ...realise you've just had to delete the entire poem
18. Refer to step 1
A self-critique on my usual writing process
Jack Shannon Dec 2018
She blooms in spring after the heavy snow,
Her grace heralded by trumpet fanfare.
Along the river bank is where she'll grow
Loud and proud in the warm early May air.
Though tangled weeds may grasp firm on her roots,
She'll spite them whilst dressed in glorious blue.
So all who see her fresh buds and shoots,
Will know inside flourishes every hue
Of colour there displayed inside her mind,
Topics not easily comprehended,
Encyclopaedic knowledge you will find,
Which given her chance will be defended.
And as the Bluebells leave with Summer Sun,
She will remain to cheer us, never done.
One of the first Sonnets I wrote, about a good friend who needed cheering up.
Jack Shannon Dec 2018
Am I so broken?
She tells me so,
Her eyes full of tears
That it's what's left unspoken
That I can't see myself
That I can't react
I'm numb
Someone else's problem
Not mine
It's not who I am
Not who I want to be
But in reality it is
It's who I've become
Faded and worn
Not yet 20 but old
But I am a lie
An old poem by a confused and hurt me.
Jack Shannon Dec 2018
At least I'm not you. I used to look up to you but I'm taller now. Sure, I've yet to get a job, because I've gone from education to education for the last 16 years but at least I have GCSE's, and less scars, oh and less drug addictions. I've yet to have a girlfriend for more than a year, but then again I don't have a son I cant see without a social worker present. Sure we both spent time in Winchester but I was at Uni drinking pints and forgetting to do the reading whilst you were sat in a cell in HMP Winchester for possession and assault. You are every excuse I make when I don't want to be nice for a day, my reasoning for why smoking can't be that bad and definitely the reason why my Mum is so proud of me even when I don't do as good as I could. I feel angry yes, but I write poetry or listen to Les Mis whilst you punch holes in walls and ingest things designed to knock out horses. Yet despite your immoral, at times repugnant behaviour, I'm still jealous because your beard is better than mine.
A poem based around things I really shouldn't think about, but inevitably do anyway.
Jack Shannon Feb 2019
I won’t let sleep take me
Though she is warm and inviting
Painless and carefree
Offering release from thinking
I can’t let myself sink
Into the sea of the abstract absurd
Even when teetering on the brink
Eyes weakening as I type each word
I feel her pull closer
Now tightening her grip
Over and over
Feel consciousness slip
I won’t let sleep take me.
Not again.
When I can’t sleep, madness/poetry take over.
Jack Shannon Dec 2018
A flush creeps to my cheeks, it's been weeks and weeks now. I'm tired of these vicious conceits, continuous defeat as we struggle over who gets to inevitably keep their sanity... her apparently as she slashes my name again and again, once twice thrice called her a friend now. It's all over, supposedly no animosity any more, can't call her a two faced evil... person, thats not civil or nice, it's not me am I right? What's this stinging feeling in my eyes, I can't, I don't know just make this emptiness stop, a pit forming in my stomach and as I rise to the top I could just drop my self into it, all the jokes, all the smiles, all the confidence I never had anyway disappears before it was here even for a day. Big girls don't cry, but then again the songs lie, I sit here surrounded by people who judge the sound of my tears hitting plastic, they think it's fantastic to see a guy like me brought to there level. Big guy, just means another foot to fly as I fall from the sky, after being dropped from so high. Get it together Jack you're not having a panic attack. You're not anxious. You're not depressed. Even if you were no one would be impressed by your pain. Just pick yourself up, roll a ***, pack your bag and run home. And start it all over again.
A free-form stream of consciousness poem I wrote whilst crying on a train after a mess of a break up.
Jack Shannon Feb 2019
I remember days spent rocking to and fro on a boat with no particular place to go, just waiting for the next race, sandwich in hand which is somehow filled with sand, though none is in sight. The massive grin as I almost fall in, and a look of disappointment as he realises I’m not completely soaked to my skin.

I remember nights spent under electric lights, rolling bowls down an artificial green, and seeing him clap and cheer if I got anywhere near.

I remember piles and piles of meat being grilled, Ivor looking perfectly chilled as the barbecue flamed around his ears, always calm and happy to be cooking, ribs and burgers and sausages and steak, always burnt a few by ‘mistake’ which just happened to find their way to the dog.

I remember him smiling.

I remember singing with him in the car, on our way to do something somewhere, voices raised high, without a care for the tune, or pitch, and even the lyrics were mostly substituted with anything we came up with at the time. Belting Les Mis together for the 42nd time that trip because we had forgotten to take any other CD’s.

I remember how proud he looked when he showed me the first Potato he took home from the new allotment, trying to justify the days of work digging and toiling, plowing and boiling in a summer heat that couldn’t seem to keep him inside, for the sake of more courgettes than you could shake a stick at.

I remember crying, and him telling me it was okay to feel this way, that it just means we cared, and not to be ashamed to let the tears fall.

I remember watching him sit in the garden, Toby at his feet, content to just watch the world go by, only the occasional fly to bother him. He just sat, a small smirk on his face, happy with the pace of the world as it was, the afternoon sun just starting to sink. I wish I could remember what he said as I joined him.

I remember him as he was, as he will always be in my mind and my heart.
A poem I’ve written (and still editing) for my Step-Dad’s funeral next week. Pretty depressing, but I felt like I wanted to get this out now, rather than bottling it up.
Jack Shannon Dec 2018
Something always itches.

When I walk.

Itch.

When I talk.

Itch.

I scratch, and I can breathe again.

When I'm cold.

Itch.

When I'm hot.

Itch.

I scratch, and I can breathe again.

If I'm at home.

Itch.

If I'm away.

Itch.

I scratch, and I can breathe again.

When I smoke.

Itch.

When I don't.

Itch.

I scratch, and I can breathe again.

I can laugh.

Itch.

I can cry.

Itch.

I scratch, and I can breathe again.

You scratch, and I feel like I'll never itch again.

You scratch, and I feel like I'll never breathe again.

You scratch, and everything stops.
About missing her, so nothing new there.
Jack Shannon Dec 2018
Oh glorious day, did my eyes deceive?
So long the wait had been I could not believe,
That the time had come, so bright and fair,
My poor and barren chin would no longer be bare.
No more would I shave in vain attempt
To feel manly and escape contempt
From my bearded brother, whom according to he,
Could grow a full beard by the age of 3.
Oh how he'd be proven wrong from now on,
That even 'Baby Faced Jack' could possibly grow one,
Soon I'd have more hair than could be counted.
So much in fact I would never be discounted,
By burly builders and stubbly cooks
And have my age judged as 12 based on my looks.
Oh, what possibilities could be within my grasp,
Sideburns, goatees, chin beards OOH A Moustache
Ah, so many new ways to help me look prim and distinguished,
Like Hugh Jackman but better because I'm... English?
But as I pet, stroke and caress this wonderful hair,
My eyes widen in fear and despair
It was not what it seemed, it just wasn't fair,
This wonderful thing must have come from elsewhere,
For as I prided over becoming a man,
That tiny hair fell off right into my hand.
A poem based on the long wait to being able to grow a beard.
Jack Shannon Dec 2018
I feel like Schrödinger's cat,
Both happy and weary
In a box that's the theory
Call me Schrödinger's Jack
Could be one way or the other
Be like me or my brother
But better yet be better
Be more than I am or less
Going through time is the test
But the box is closed,
Nobody knows
How I'll turn out, till it's opened
If the lock will turn,
If the hinges are broken.
The future is the box
And the cat is me
There or not
Soon we'll see
A poem inspired by a silly half rhyme and a theory on inter-relational causality.
Jack Shannon Feb 2019
A crack in the wall
Or under your bed
Live a people so small
They're thinner than thread
Shorter than mice
Shorter than dice
Shorter than lice
Shorter than rice
But away they build
And cities they make
Tiny but skilled
Like the things they create
So hear the bed springs
It's their world you're squashing
And know there are things
Still doing their washing
I used to imagine there were tiny people living in my room when I was a kid. Call it imaginative or delusional, I still wrote a poem about it.
To
Jack Shannon Feb 2019
To
Life to mind
Mind to pen
Pen to paper
Paper to bin
Been to gone
Gone to Work
Work to live
Live to die
Die to stop
Stop to breath
Breath to go
Go to sleep
Sleep to Dream
Dream to mind
Mind to pen
Pen to paper
Paper to screen
Screen to you
When words fail you, sometimes it’s okay to take them three at a time.
Jack Shannon Feb 2019
Not that he was light on his feet before,
But Twinkle doesn’t dance anymore.
He doesn’t talk a lot, and when he does
It’s jumbled and mumbled, we make a fuss
Trying to understand just what he means
Up/down, left/right, yes/no, joggers/jeans
When once he’d clear a buffet in a blink
He won’t eat his lunch, let alone drink.
He made mowing look easy, I struggle
And instead of him I’m the one the dog cuddles.
As wobbly as me on ten pints or more
Inevitably we’d both end on the floor
Always clean shaven has turned awry
With a full blown beard it’s another guy
Sat watching the same **** telly
New fancy chair and slightly smaller belly.
Twinkle gets grumpy when there’s a  cannula to insert,
Doesn’t trust the nurse when she said it wouldn’t hurt.
Breathing was easy for Twinkle last year
But not so now, it’s why we’re here
Waiting for a bed in a place where there’s plenty,
The problem is that none of them are empty.
Doctors a-plenty and many nurses too,
The only thing lacking is something to do.
In Game of Thrones jammies he sits in his chair,
He says he’s hot rather be in underwear
Or anywhere I think, just not on this ward
As everyone here is terminally bored.
A poem I wrote whilst visiting my Step-Dad in hospital, thinking about how his illness had effected my life and his.
Jack Shannon Dec 2018
We are afraid of gluten, nuts, fat, carbs, sugar, shellfish, meat, fish and dairy.

We are afraid that the internet will crash and we will have to spend more than 20 seconds a day in our own heads, and not in the ****** stream of consciousness of society which is social media.

We are afraid of others knowing just how stupid we are, that one day they'll realise we've been hiding behind trivia since we discovered QI and TED talks.

We are afraid that someone will correct that Friends quote we use almost daily, and by doing so render our existence meaningless.

We are afraid of being angry or sad, or so happy that we might offend those who aren't, and therefore adopt a bland honeyless oatmeal flavoured apathy instead.

We are afraid of mistakes.

We are afraid of mistaking gender, sexuality and race, should we say he, she, them, they, Mr, Miss, Mrs, Mx we're not as sure as we once were.

We are afraid of being at the age where we can no longer blame our laziness on youthfulness or adolescent carelessness but instead realise that if we don't start soon...

We are afraid that we have made a wrong turn but have travelled too far to go back.

We are afraid that we have made all the right turns, but life is just **** anyway.

We are afraid.
A creative response to a class in my MA. Consciously imposing my own petty fears on society as a whole, because it's easier that way and it's fun.
Jack Shannon Feb 2019
We trust ourselves to know right from wrong.

We trust in the age old sayings of people whose names we can’t remember.

We trust our dogs not to **** in our favourite pair of shoes whilst we’re asleep.

We trust that everyone means well and just wants to get by.

We trust the teachers who taught us the earth is round, and that Pi is 3.14159 and how Pluto is the 9th planet in our solar system...

We trust that not everyone is right all the time.

We trust bus drivers to not get lost.

We trust in the fact that our keys are probably in plain sight even though we’ve been looking for half an hour.

We trust our parents to know what to do no matter the situation.

We trust the world to keep spinning away in the dark void of space with no company but the moon.

We trust that everything will be alright.

We trust that one more pint won’t hurt.

We trust that hangovers are only temporary.

We trust our partners when they say I love you.

We trust in traffic lights and zebra crossings.

We trust that this is our last chance to get a brand new sofa in the DFS sale with O% APR for 4 years.

We trust that size doesn’t matter.

We trust Alexa won’t tell us to *******, and that Siri will always help us no matter how many times we say we hate it.

We trust that despite our self-doubt and insecurities that we’ll probably still get through another day.

We trust in peanut butter.

We trust that no matter how many times things go wrong, mistakes are made and promises are forgotten, we will learn to trust again...
We trust.
Another  try at normalising the weird thoughts that pop into my brain sometimes.

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