She leaves me
with secret flowers each has a broken heart and purple petals for me to hide and memories I can't ....
She's an alphabet artist
she paints in words, from a palette of adjectives, nouns and verbs, the landscape she finds in the folds of her mind she exhibits in volumes of verse.
We danced toward
each other's wounds with gentle step and touched inside and now the bleeding has resumed and all this blood is hard to hide.
She opens a window
and hopes for the sky to fall in from outside and it's tailwind bring her the moon and the clouds lined with silver, a crowd of the finest of stars and a spare pair of wings..
Lonely, like the ancient ocean
flooding fast upon the sand past a fading line of footprints, ankle deep in surf she stands casting wishes on the water like a sprinkling of snow, light they land but moments after, melt into the waves, and go..
I cannot write
I cannot find behind the creases of my mind the words to fill another line, those words wait out of sight for now I cannot write.
had worked hard for most of his lifetime at being the odd one out or at the very least at appearing different to other people he considered with disdain to be normal and now after finally mastering the look other 'different' people wore he had an uneasy feeling that he had simply exchanged one uniform for another and doing so hadn't required a presence of oddness in any way at all.
I once found the moon in a forest
of fir two hundred foot tall, it's face being lovingly polished by fish in a silver pool, the water was deep like a riddle, as dark underneath as the pine, I swam like a thief to the middle but that slippery silver refused to be mine.
Hoards of leaves hurry to gather
at one worn headstone after another like a funeral party uncertain whether these are the dead who they grieve; Time and wind tug at the memory left in this absent minded cemetery visited only by them and I and those lying under the trees with stories that no-one can read.
like a bugle to announce his dismay he got set to make a statement without speaking for a day but his mother just assuming he had nothing much to say sent her silent revolutionary son outside to play; outmaneuvered in the kitchen by his mother's disregard for campaigns of wild muteness, the rebellion fell apart to the sound of scuffing shoes and the grumble in his heart 'cause silent protest tends to lose when no-one's listening very hard..
Easy flow the waters
of the river passing by, though we straighten them with walls and narrow them in time, and lace them up with bridges to bind them where they lay, still the waters, like a lifetime, slip their bonds and pass away..
She loosens on tiptoe
the latch of her window, slides upward the sash and the shine of the moon pours over the sill, like it's rushing downhill like a silver stream, flooding her room.
Wherever I walk
always there is an absence walking beside me..
of all springtime shows is the display of sculpted stone that never blooms and only grows after the seeds of war are sown
There's folk on the news
on the tele tonight and all of them making me sad, they're all of them thumping on tubs tonight and waving American flags, and it's not so much the waving I mind, or the sound of tubs being thumped, it's more the thought that human kind will thump them for someone like Trump..
Waiting for the sea she sits
writing with her fingertips setting down herstory on the sand; waiting, with a wistful eye watching for the rising tide wondering if stories can be drowned..
Death stirs always like the wind
like something getting up to go, and like the wind death doesn't leave anywhere alone, but where it is he travels with whoever take his guiding hand, gladly will I wait until I die to understand ..
Is this as good as it gets? 'cause
I'm feeling a little bit tricked, I'm feeling a little bit foolish like my dream's had it's pockets picked, I've been waiting to see if the hands of Fate have slipped me a hand that's not mine, but it's getting late and while I've been waiting she's robbed me of all of my time, my time, Fate's robbing me all of the time..
On the day
she turned to dust she asked the wind to be her friend and it picked her up and ran her through the fingers of it's hands and it poured her into pockets and whispered to hold on and before the church had emptied they were gone..
There was an old world
that turned on it's head, and shivered and quivered and shook out the dead, and shook off the living and all of their stuff til' all there was left it considered enough, and all there was left was a world upsidedown, and wind and whatever had roots in the ground, and fish with stern warning to stay where they be, down under the waves of the quivering sea.
it into a clock and slung it up high on a wall, with numbers like bars between us, where there had been nothing before; before, my days had come open, open and endless like sky, but boxed on the wall there looked no room for all of the rest of my lifetime and I.
There's a forest
inside her as thick as the night and no-one to guide her and no guiding light no-one to remind her that just out of sight is a path she could make of her own so she waits and she ages like stone...
Down by the sea
where the marram grass grows there's a ******* the beach in a rusting boat with a tablecloth sail and it's rudder broke and her eyes are an ocean wide..
her stark ***** beautiful truth folded in finely spun verse; but sharp are the scars that push their way through her fragile layers of words.
you pull all my poems apart whichever way you think is best I don't care if you pull at them gently or hard I just want to be undressed
She left when she realised he Was closing more doors than agreed When he asked her for why She said look at that sky That's the breathing space my lifetime needs. ......Thoughts...... When they're finally free of their chain And falling about you like rain Don't be wasting concern On a fear they will burn They might not fall your way again. ......Next door's cat...... There's an old man next door in the flat He shares with his skinny pet cat Whilst nobody here Has seen him this year His cat's grown disturbingly fat. ......Popular...... Some people are popular folk But none quite so much as the bloke Who waits in the park Each day after dark Selling sweet smelling clouds of blue smoke. ......Dead Fred...... The problem with my Uncle Fred Is he keeps coming back from the dead 'It's a bit ****** cold Down in that hole Stop putting me back' he said. ......Reverend Ted...... The problem with Reverend Ted Is he keeps rising up from the dead 'Heaven and **** are all very well but I'd rather be home' he said ......Pop...... He was just building up to a scream When his head fell apart at the seams Days at a time He had lost to that rhyme Now he'll never find out what it means. ......Madman with gun...... I once knew a man with a gun That he aimed everyday at the sun As it sank to the ground He fired off a round And went to bed thinking he'd won. ......Madness pt2..... The last man alive raised his gun and declared open war on the sun as it sank to the ground he put the last round through his head convinced he had won. ......Moondrops...... The night the moon started to drip A silver drop fell from it's tip And carved in the dark The sweep of an arc So fine we thought heaven had split. ......Holidays on the moon...... We holiday each year in June On the back of a crescent moon In a house made of cheese Where you eat what you please Last year I ate the front room. ......Gravity...... Ever since the day of my birth I've been jumping for all that I'm worth It's jolly bad luck That gravity ***** When you're trying to leave planet Earth. ......Venus...... I've been asking directions to Venus And it seems that the space in between us Is an awful long way So I'm leaving today On a rocket that's shaped like a frankfurter. ......Martin's Limericks...... With a limit of only five lines The first two of which have to rhyme With the one at the end Martin my friend You nail it every time. ......My Poor Limerick...... From an ivory tower of prose It's a long way to look down your nose At my poor limerick That you'd beat with a stick If you could without creasing your clothes.
Thought I'd lump them all together, you might have seen a couple before...Sorry if so.
Thank you Martin and thank you Kalypso for your company :o)
When this skin
was young and ironed, well it fit, like new things do; that was then but now I find the cracks within are showing through.
Where are the words, the ones with sparks
to set a fire in wooden hearts and set to work my wooden tongue with all the wit that they impart ? where do those words that all belong in works of poetry come from ? I know them only as the guests that visit me by book and song; my own words bear the awkwardness of someone starting to undress with clumsy thumbs and wooden hands and should perhaps stay unexpressed..
softly surge through her silence again like long soothing fingers of whispering rain that soak their way in through her bare thirsty skin until not a dry moment remains .
That was the end
of her holy affair, when she knelt, out of habit and felt fresh air finding the gaps where her gods once were like light finds the edge of a door when it's not shut so tight as before..
of the wind stretched her face in a smile as the girl on the swing closed her eyes for a while and started to sing softly the verse that she learned the first time she had flown with the birds. The girl on the swing reached out with her toes for the wide open sky whilst above and below the birds that had taught her the words of their song said 'Its time to let go' so she did and was gone.
of the wind on her face made her smile and the girl on the swing closed her eyes for a while then she started to sing softly the verse she had learned the first time she had flown with the birds; the girl on the swing reached out with her toes for the wide open sky whilst above and below all the birds that had taught her the words of their song said 'it's time to let go' so she did and was gone..
And who then would have told
of this end anyway ? Not you, you leapt first and furthest always, and recklessly that last time; few enough I think remember now, but I knew you when we were skywide open and kin to the blowing wind; we were brothers you and I, two of a different kind, we ran and we jumped like suicides, leaving dust trails like others leave wealth, there were days I believed boxes were built only to be strung together as freight trains, god knows we rode all those that were; but lately I see them used by people frightened of freedom also, for to hide their worried lives inside...
She reaches on tip toe
through windows and tries to take hold of the outside and gather it in, for to feel the wind and the pull of the tides on the shrinking inside of a life growing thin..
On the first hour of my first day
in the front trench I fell; 'Get up,' bawled Sergeant Major, 'and stand eye to eye with ****, and look ye on the plucky dead whose chests swell out with pride'; but t'was the rats that swelled them as they plucked them from inside..
I wondered if I borrowed a line of poetry whether words of my own might follow after, the borrowed line is Mr Kipling's, from Epitaphs of the war 1914-1918..
Let's dance the next dance
like it's the last dance, like we know that it's our last chance to dance and when the band begin to slow hold me like smoke, there is a flame inside my soul burning the dancefloor, let's dance before it goes...
Trees curl their toes
holding tight the shifting fields of yellow grain, thin air roars like an avalanche through the branches and a family of rooks tilt forward like skiers on the piste...
If some day
I should pass you clothed in shades of pale pastel all I ask is turn your face from my failing sense of taste...
I have an age old dread
of an old age dress sense..
that is left un- stirred boils dry and stinks
(thank you le comps)
She smashes windows
and watches them fly like tiny glass birds and now and again she likes to smash mirrors that capture her eye to see if she flies the same...
The last man alive
raised his gun and emptied it into the sun as it sank out of sight left alone in the night he couldn't decide what he'd won.
what will we do when
there is nothing left to **** and nothing left to die for?
Something made me smile
as I passed the place today where the beech nuts used to pile and the squirrels used to play and the workman with the frown that is sawn into his face came to take the old tree down and leave a raw and empty place. 'Let her be a wooden tombstone, she was getting out of hand' declared a rubber stamped official but he didn't understand that all her strength was in her roots and her roots were all still there and today I smiled and watched her raise ******* in the air.
AKA Tree tells mankind to f**k off.
I dread the sound of its passing
and the call of its merry chime on the hour every day the price that I pay for life is a fear of time...
everything on a page, all her sorrow, her love and her rage, and I truly believe she will write herself free of the jailers who fastened her cage.
she lives inside out on the page in secret but one of these days I truly believe her words will be keys that pull back the bolts of her cage.
My green fingered great uncle Maurice
ran away with a stripper called Doris she takes off her clothes wherever she goes and she's got ***** hair like a forest.
I have an irregular heartbeat
that ever so easily trips head over heels and breathless at the thought of your thighs and my hips; I have an irregular heartbeat I worry will run out of luck and trip and stay breathless forever before we are able to f...
Yes I remember
that night in midwinter, the one that we burned on the hill, and the moon and the stars and the somersault sparks and wanting it all to stay still, and yes I remember the warmth of the embers and daring the future with hope at the very same time your fingers touched mine as softly as if they were smoke.
When my years are
stretched thin like elastic that is at breaking point or just past it I'll be glad that I keep my best memories deep in the grooves of a black slab of plastic.
Good memories are made of vinyl. :0)
On the day
her body burned she asked the winds to be her friends and they picked her up and poured her through the fingers of their hands like a river without ending that won't be tied or bound, until every trace of dust embraced the freedom it had found.
When I am old
and still alive like embers in the ashes I will burn the hands of all who try to tidy up too soon...
you find yourself standing in line think a little differently step sideways or back and commit a very small act of rebellion but not when queuing at a supermarket checkout if your hungry and not whilst waiting at passport border control as trigger fingers may start to twitch and it would be best to avoid doing so altogether at a public ****** where stepping sideways or back can be a risky business even with the place to yourself on reflection it appears there is a time and a place for everything even very small acts of rebellion although it ought to be said a rebellion that knows no hunger a rebellion that challenges neither borders or control a rebellion that overly concerns itself with ******* in the designated area has probably entirely missed the point.
excuse the ramble
Ive been eating a lot of cheese