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Keith W Fletcher Dec 2015
Restless rainyday feelings
Alone in my room
Peering out of the window
At the gathering grey gloom
Left in the darkness
With nothing to do
I open up my memories
To think about you
Like the raindrops that gather
On a clear window pane
The drops run together
Like the thoughts in my brain

And I'm floating along
On a foggy grey day
Peacefully dreaming of sunnier days
When we walked and we talked
Without ever even thinking  about time
Restless rainyday feelings
Alone and  wasting my time
At the depths of my remourse
On a steep uphill climb
As I'm climbing so hard
Just to get to the top
My thoughts........they just scatter
Like the falling raindrops

As they all run together
Like the lines on the pane
Running together much like
The thoughts in my brain

And I'm floating along
On a foggy grey day
Peacefully dreaming of sunnier days
When we walked and we talked
Without ever even thinking about time

Restless rainyday feelings
Alone as  I'm thinking of you
I find that it's so hard
To know just what to do
When left with an emptiness
That goes so amazingly deep
To the depths of my heart
My soul and my deepest desire
Those thoughts that inspire

These restless rainyday feelings
All alone  -- much too soon
So I'm just  floating  along
Through the gathering grey gloom
All alone....alone in my room !!
SilentCry  Sep 2016
RainyDay
SilentCry Sep 2016
Raindrops splashed onto my windowpane
And all that can be seen are blurred streetlights
© SilentCry
Another old poem of mine.
One emotes when one evokes:
for all you know, mothballed reader,
I could have contraired & composted
the shell section of the 'Colour Library
Book of the Natural World' w/ A-level simples
& a fistful of moths who have met their
parrotsketch. In my wellredition, there's inscription
from hypocrite cheapskate poet I know not,
but they are after my own cordiform inkblot:

'I bought this Xmas '88
for both of you to share,
make sure you don't write on it
or the pages tear.'

Pages, pages tear poets apart again.

Did I inspect a dead moth
twixt thumb & forefinger?
As if about to pinchtoke,
tinchily poke a 1960s roach,
which is all dem hippies seemed to smoke?
Don't ask if I pinchfished a dead moth
outta ***** fangs outta the can
for a closer look.
You don't want to know how far I'll
debase, lay myself to waste for Art.
Until the selfimposed dignity of Man
is like Kryptonite carrotcake
to a sweettooth Superman
in a loser's cloak.
I permanently weaken my position
& spread dead moths
next to a pictorial spread of dead moths
to police the remoteness of my *******.

Shells can be conehead crashelmet
homes for whelks, barnacles' helterskelter,
bone spire to keep out the sea & the whelkers.
Shells can be ribbed, Tench Frickler
or smooth as babywipe breeze
upon an orphan's bottom.
Or shells can just be the soul's used booth.
I do attempt to pen my soul
in its booth,
& really am not so faremoved
from the selfcontained philosophy
of selfcontainment behind booves.
I believe in this abandoned booth,
this freedom cocoon inside a nuthouse
cocoon inside a dope cocoon inside a *****
cocoon inside the glistening unshed deadskin
of childhood. Insideout of the blackballed
rainyday cocoon where nothing everchanges
into a betterfly, implosive metamorphosis
into nothingness, blackbathroned noncocoon,
best womb return to when I hadn't been born
I could recreate on a budget.

But outside there's Death's Head moths alive
in the penguin curves of overwaitresses.
Every once & a short long while/long short while,
Death'a Head moths defile my wellbeing,
my 1/2 of a heart2heart will not come out
of its shelling (only statue chemistry remains).

Sarcophagus moths, tombrobber's butterflies
- you know you stone dead moths should
get out more, you'd love Ra the great lightbulb.
Death's Head where the good old bad moon rising
used to be, it fluttermutters its dark matter
which has cosmic knockon effects, tempest in all
24 corners of the timezone - Jolly Roger moths ahoy!
Sail in the face of reset wristwatches.

Raw shark moths, warmedup Death's Heads
in the shadows of the trouty jowls of
elder bloodrelatives, those gouty owls.
From each quivering, filtering
crysisalias, Death's Heads moths fly,
40 approx shock outta shipictured
box of matches.

We can't be what we were meant to be,
kings&queens of each other's moods
in shells or booves, on shelves,
behind screens or in blackbathroomed flats
where all the Alone One has to thinkabout is
the dead flat dead gnat on the ceiling,
straddling its own shadow,
phantom gnat autonecrophile
making an artex exhibition of itself.

Now some poeticlicenceabiding laureate
would nick ****** sprig of their muse's wig
to pick out the killing colour
they desire their arid garret,
but me & my dead moth lost boys
reckon Duluxmen should just bite
the bullet by the horns , slay the taboo
& describe their darkest shade,
'Death Unabashed'. Or 'Black Sheepdog'.

Shucks, I better get off the bathroomfloor
of my mind, this phonebox for the blues
(dial 100 for the motherator). Wash off
this black bathroom gloom, where it appears
the Battle of Britain of Moths was lost.

Shells, husks:
moths, lives, pistachios.
#dulux #kryptonite #joydivision #comparethemeerkatdotcom #frenchtickler #spoonerism #jollyroger #elegy #insect #death
Steve Page Feb 2019
It's not the scale it's the detail.
It's not the breath it's the depth.
It's not about how much you gave.
It's more about how much you kept.

Did you give when you had too little to share?
Did you stop when you had no moment to spare?
Did you feel the difference to your rainyday fund?
Or did you budget to ensure there's enough to go round?

When you gave this month, did it cause you to pause?
When you stop to do more, do the angels applaud?
Have you learnt the habit of living on less?
And fostered the gift to give to excess?

All I'm suggesting is a little more thought.
Look at your spending, at what you afford.
Is there more room for a little adjustment?
Would your life be the richer with greater investment?

Next time you stop
next time you give,
is there room for some change
in the way that you live?
A conversation I have with myself more and more as I grow older.

— The End —