Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Perhaps they will forget,
have already forgotten
with their yellow jackets
and marker-stained fingers, ready-set
for another unfamiliar face
with their first aid kit,
strings of terminology to engage the meek
and mute, the absent without leave.

They have left me
a failed apprentice with stationery
in my pocket and an out-of-tune song.
You might well ask
where I flicker next. My polka-dotted mouth
says nothing, the answer deep
in the hole they dug, or wedged on the roof,
the last unobtainable golden jigsaw piece.
Written: May 2021.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome as always. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Seven years later
the first thing I mention is
how your glasses are different.

The barista, chestnut hair
and weak masked smile
is biding her time, for uni beckons.

I scald my tongue,
you un-knot the evaporated events
I never knew existed,

condense them into digestible chunks.
That boiling ring of honesty
like a blister in the throat,

to tell you I’ve filled my life
with farcical reveries, sleep
that stutters like a lorry in traffic.

A child, plaster-wrapped finger,
***** on a purple bottle.
I wish they’d stop looking over.

I would tell you but I treat this,
stupidly, as though a date,
our initial, perhaps last tête-à-tête.

You haven’t heard from them.
Exactly, I think, almost say.
Why would we.
Written: April 2021.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, earlier in the month. Feedback welcome as always. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Just as Matthew Broderick kisses Mia Sara
I inadvertently spill a blob of wine #2
on the sheets, the alley between
my pyjama-d arm and your **** leg
and it is then I decide I will not go
into work tomorrow, stay home with you
and continue decorating the spare room.
I know it's not relevant now but I ask if
you prefer Nordic Sky or Enchanted Eden;
the former, you say, quizzical.
I nod, smile just a touch, return to the film;
Ferris's dad almost spots him, but not quite.
You don't notice the tiny stain;
I have the best night's sleep in months.
Written: April 2021.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. The paint colours are real and the movie the fictional duo are watching is Ferris Bueller's Day Off. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
when your arms form
a garland around my waist
I am unpacking the toiletries

first the electric toothbrush
with its accompanying charger
then the half-empty

lurid green bottle of shampoo
aftershave in its glass phial
cheap razor and deodorant

I tell you this feels like
one of those cheesy adverts on TV
and you say yes it’s just like that

so what
and I say so what back
and close our cabinet door
Written: March 2021.
Explanation: A simple poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Once again, stranger, I am thinking of you,
atop that hotel in Catalonia
on the cusp of a new wave, 
sun blazing, streets like a hive,
the fizz of euphoria.

The first time you ever held a gun,
made in Oviedo, the M1916 Mauser
slung over one shoulder, a glint 
of a smile on your face saying nothing but 
more than enough nine decades on.

Crow-black hair,
uniform with the sleeves rolled up,
face of anti-fascism
but you didn't know it,
nor did you know the hotel

your feet graced would be gone
after bloodshed, your later years
in the French capital,
the photo of you stored
inside the crucibles of time.
Written: January/February/March 2021.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time - edits are likely. It is inspired by the image of then teenager Marina Ginestà atop the former Hotel Colón in Barcelona on 21st July 1936. The photo is deemed one of the most iconic images of the Spanish Civil War.
A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
these four walls
better than the back of my hand,
better than the staccato of my pummelled heart.

A newspaper I didn’t buy
tells me we are going up in a yelp of smoke,
those who endure left to select a disease.

Now my nose bleeds,
the phone chirrups and there can only be
rotten syllables on the other end, whispers in the back.

With eyes daubed in lethargy,
I watch you move. Half a clock later
and you’re miles gone. I would say I’m surprised

but no, I’m not.
Written: February 2021.
Explanation: A poem written fairly quickly in my own time. Feedback welcome as always. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my Hp home page.
almost a year on,
still our communication thin, brittle,
as if glass going back to sand,
our dialogue meagre, the words we use
overused for nothing new
has developed, our images ashen,
the corners curled up like petrified animals.

doubtful of a deluge,
doubtful of a return
to the occasional face-to-face
chatter of current affairs,
our throats dry from news deficiency
and the awkward drives home,
our hibernation preparation.

trying to sleep in our gyres of silence,
clocks with their ugly faces
like lurid sirens on the walls - 
tell me you'll come back to me,
in some way, some form, for I am almost
limbless in these fantasies,
the words you use as iridescent.
Written: January 2021.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page. Feedback is welcome as always.
Next page