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Her mouth was really
the one real thing I’ve ever known.

I knew her mouth better
than the alphabet, days of the week.

Every word that spilled from her mouth,
a potent, sparkling-new alcohol.

Often I thought of how her mouth
moved against mine, our private dance.

One kiss and we’d be drunk,
a love frothing from her mouth and mine.

Years pass. The taste of her mouth washed away
by toothpaste, a thousand coffees.

The one real thing I ever knew,
her mouth, really.
Written: November 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
The flowers you bought me
are so pretty. They are
so pretty,

little gloves of colour.
The window is open -
perhaps rain

on the way. And the reds
and whites against grey,
a light breeze

that runs into the room.
I try but don't recall
all the names,

but they smell so lovely
and you will remember
I am sure.
Written: November 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for university in a deliberately simple style, as this is a pastiche of sorts of the style/subject matter of some of William Carlos Williams's work. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page. I am open to collaborations, though university work can take up quite a lot of time.
The forest holds our secrets.
Light slithers a path to us,
the sound of our breathing,
crackle of a splintered twig.

There’s a gurgle of water,
flossing the rocks of a stream.
Listen, you say.   A bird’s wings
applause as we go on our way.

I stop near a tree, its bark
sharp, flecked with moss.
No words, just immeasurable years
between us, skin against skin.

The smell we’ve been walking to,
lavender, tiptoes to our noses.
My fingers brush your hand
and we step forwards again.
Written: November 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for university as a pastiche of the styles/subject matter of Edward Thomas and Robert Frost. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
it’s a peck of dust
but that’s all it takes
     you have seen years scuttle
     into the shadows
     because you’ve filled them
     with recurrent words
sighs and optimism
draining from you
as if your life
is a crumbled sludge in a sieve

how long before you drink the sun?
     you scurry from one
     knotted dream to another
     like a confused mouse
     a dog chasing its tail
circles are your shape
they fit around you
red and rusty
as if only smothering you more
Written: October 2018.
Explanation: A quick so-so poem written in my own time. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
And it happens.

For a moment, a silence
that encloses us,
a cool, transparent blanket
for a second of a second.

Then his body, limbs, flailing,
drunken puppet,
small spheres of mud
drip off from his skin.

An ankle trembles
in its socket,
a foot spins the opposite way,
a crack nobody hears.

There’s a whistle in the ears
as his torso judders
into newfound positions,
death already in the bloodstream.

Nothing can be done,
you knew this could happen,

my voice says in my head
as blood erupts from a wound.

I know it as soon
as his body smacks the earth,
his life evaporated,
his name floating to the clouds.
Written: October 2018.
Explanation: A so-so poem written in my own time for university - a loose pastiche of Wilfred Owen's genre. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
breeze in hair
   cool whispers

   sand on hands
slinks between fingers

old band shirt
   silver bangle

   cobalt nails
watermelon eyes

footprint hieroglyphs
   sleepy pulse

   pineapple sunset
ribbon clouds

winter beach
   fresh love

   just a touch
sea-hush
Written: October 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
So, another day of it.
The clock an instrument that ****** you
with its skeletal finger,
and now the night crawls up, covers
the town before dinner, the cold
licking your skin the way it can
every October.

You haven’t been yourself.
You’ve been stumbling,
legs like lead pipes, head
pulsating, unmissable signal.
Stand -
a conker crack scurries
     across the skull.
Sit -
pulse in ear, gut gurgling
     just as a long-blocked sink.

Sleep is a taste of petrol,
appetite so far gone
you expect postcards.
But at least the night crawls up,
delicately, coldly.
Written: October 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for university - a rough attempt of a pastiche of TS Eliot's work. Comments welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
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