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Thomas Newlove Dec 2016
On asking me why meeting you was best,
Naturally, it draws a laugh and a sigh -
So obvious my life with you is blessed,
But I will do my best with a reply:

You have given me hope about the world,
My heart has grown double because of you -
Falling in love with those two eyes impearled
With kindness and warmth and passion's there too.

You have made me want to better myself,
Given me strength and a new thirst for life
To better the world and better my health,
Which was dwindling like an old, blunting knife.

You've helped me fall in love again - a treat!
You brighten up my days and my dreams.
It was you who made me cut down on meat
(Arnie was just a good excuse it seems.)

And now that I have weighed up all of these,
I guess the next step's learning Portuguese.
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
He sprinkles this sugar on the world
Trying to make it a little bit sweeter.
Our response suggests he succeeds.

Each grain spinning like a hurricane,
Frozen droplets floating towards the earth
Until they kiss the frozen ground.

Confusion, as they aimlessly drift through the air.
Billions build up and coat the world
In a blanket of peace, hope and wild dreams.

Hugged plants are squeezed a new colour,
Rooftops too, are repainted white.
The bitter cold troubles no one.

This frozen sweetness engulfs the land,
And perfection is amongst a youthful world.
Perfection that thrives in the luminous dark.

But, nightfall slowly realises our fears,
And when weary eyes awaken to the morning sun,

All of Earths hopes and dreams
Have started to melt away.
Comments please! Not too happy with this one
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
Oh why must love be such a tease?
Those women are a crazy breed!
Can life not find true love with ease?
Those women toy with what I need,
Those with their passionate winks and smiles,
Those longing gazes that burn like fire –
Suggestions, nothingness or trials
Testing objects of desire.

One I love has a lover own,
But is it true or simple fun?
And would our love leave love alone,
Or is this love of mine the one?

Another, single, but I don’t know.
It’s just a hunch that I can keep.
The question’s whether I should go
And take the painful, fateful leap...

The last is one I haven’t met,
The woman who oft haunts my dreams,
A woman I might ever get?
A slim hope for a dope it seems!
Thomas Newlove Apr 2018
Now there's a fine thing.
I looked out my window
And there was the sun,
And it had a fine glow
That made the land sing
As it went to sleep.
It struck the distant sea,
As it was made to do
Before the stars awake,
And the moon began to make
The beauty of the blue
Bring out the best in me,
Reminding me of you.
Thomas Newlove Apr 2017
This is an ode to love,
But there is no subject to this love,
This is an empty ode,
A coffin with the corpse long-decayed,
A debt that was never owed,
A terror unafraid.

This is to Donnie, the ****-Kid.
I have so much love to give.
This is to my muse,
But not about anyone in particular.
It's only Audrey I amuse
When dancing with vernacular.

She's what gives me motivation,
But is not the subject of my affection.
My subject is desire itself -
An emptiness which must be filled,
A yearning for a book upon my shelf,
Happiness that simply can't be willed.

This is an ode to love,
But you should know right now
That I cannot love human beings,
I can only love ideas,
And they both fall through my fingers to the tune
Of coarse sand on a lazy afternoon.
Thomas Newlove Apr 2017
It's being cancelled before it's time.
It's getting drunk off a glass of wine.

It's a full moon through clouds of pollution.
It's talk, talk, talk and no revolution.

It's no result and all anticipation.
It's ******* your own imagination.

It's eating without satisfaction.
It's science with no chain reaction.

It's getting some and wanting more.
It's asked for I.D. at a liquor store.

It's getting old and wanting more.
It's hoping, praying that there is more.

It's dying before you read the end.
It's living for a life pretend.

It's a half-full take on an empty cup.
It's slitting wrists and waking up.

It's falling in love over and over again without a real sense of hope about the future or a true grasp of why you are here and what it all means and why the world works in such a backwards way and why they all lied to us and why they all have such lovely smiles and lovely eyes (and dynamite tastes and senses of humour) and why I was mixed together in such a way that I would have about twenty one solid years before I ceased to function as a healthy human being.
It's just -
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
A long time ago? Far, far away?
The Death Star collapsed and we could see
The mess it created: explosive spray -
Polluting a space in our history.

Now things are worse. X-Wings coerce
The ice-caps of Hoth to melt into sea.
What are we to do? I haven’t a clue
But hope that the force is strong within me.

The answer is clear watching Star Wars for hours:
Recycling, it seems, is not just for Jawas.
Thomas Newlove Nov 2016
I leave the comfort of the school,
I drift down to Dun Laoghaire pier,
And pass the lovers holding hands,
Or sneaking sips of bargain beer,
And I approach my destined ship -
The station always holds the key,
To get a train so I can start
The journey home to Delgany.

It soon creeps forward from the dark -
A worm emerging from a peach,
Gliding past the moonlit sea
Stroking the shores of Killiney beach.
It misses the seals in Sandycove,
Tunnelling through the Dalkey hill,
Approaching Greystones but not before
Bray, Killiney and Shankill.

It chunders through the tunnels vast,
The sea breeze freezing up the carriage.
The light shines brightest when I leave -
The moon and grass make quite a marriage,
And the stars do wonders to the trees,
Who stand bare, posing, just for me,
While I crunch through their pile of leaves
On my way home to Delgany.
NB. Dun Laoghaire pronounced "Done Leary".
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
On lecture’s desk I slowly fall asleep
And gently push my troubles out to sea,
Then head to where my dreams will earn their keep –
An island with a population me.
A sunny, shoaly Caribbean beach
With Caribbean sands and carefree waves.
A place where there’s no need to learn or teach.
Imagination drowns the deep sea caves
In this glorious inspiration land,
Absorbing up the goodness all in one,
The rest remains abandoned in the sand
As both bake slowly, softly in the sun.
But now the time has come for me to wake –
On lecture’s end my friend gives me a shake.
Thomas Newlove Sep 2017
Depression is having a completely normal day,
Equipped with teacher's mask and a jovial eccentricity
To keep the students bubbling,
Only to leave the train station and catch a glimpse
Of a girl with pink hair -
And just for a few seconds you think it's her,
And she's with somebody else.
Not ditching you for her own mental health,
But ditching you because you're not worthy
(Which is true.)
Ditching you because you couldn't be trusted.
Ditching you because you did something wrong.
And the thirty minute walk home
Seems to take forever longer,
And your stomach pounds and aches
And scrambles to be free of your body.
It craves her like every other part of you -
Your aching brain, your aching hands,
Your aching, aching heart.
You get home and you just want the world to
Swallow you up -
"There's a letter for you."
Maybe it's the citizenship,
Maybe today I catch a break,
An escape from the feelings of emptiness
Pounding my head.
An escape from the feelings of heartbreak,
The anxious catacombs of my brain
Poisoning my beating heart.
Your graduate account is being terminated.
From November you will pay bank charges.
Completely inconsequential.
Not a lot of money.
Why did I start drinking
And why can I not stop crying?
Apologies for this neither being decent prose nor worthwhile poetry. More just trying to get my head around some harsh truths.
Thomas Newlove Dec 2016
She is fire. She is gold.
She is the stories left untold.
She is lightning striking wood,
The chaos in chaotic good.

She is the sore, red raw of slaps,
The echo of thunderstorm claps,
The blast of air on winter's days,
The salt-crazed fury of ocean sprays,

The pulsing radiance of suns,
The heated smoke from fired guns,
The steamy sweat from summer ***,
The magic of a witch's hex,

The sweet and sour tears of sadness -
Beautiful madness
Thomas Newlove Jan 2016
I know it was the right decision,
Because one doesn't make
painful decisions lightly,
But ever since,
I have never quite been able
To sleep as well,
As when I did with someone
Lying beside me.
Even though I am almost two metres tall
And my feet hang out at the best of times.
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
A dull, white cupboard,
It brings bland to an already boring room.
Just opened to grab a shirt,
Unusually unaware of its artistic values.
An unnatural breeze brings the brightness
And an arm, fluttering in the wind, escapes,
Its feeble body left behind.
Who would have thought lifeless limbs could bring life
To a dying bedroom?
A blue shirt on a clean canvas,
That first drop of paint sprayed yellow on its sleeve.
A sunlight stream breaking the blue sky
And piercing the eyes,
Or perhaps it’s the mosquito plane
Heading towards his outstretched palm,
Surrounded only by a blue abyss
And the whitewashed walls of heaven.
Only a higher power could create such beauty by
Breathing a blue sky into the clouds of heaven.
This is but a true masterpiece of God’s creation
-A blue shirt, trapped helplessly, in my crafty cupboard door.
The mosquito plane refers to a bright yellow plane that sprays mosquito repellent around the Cayman Islands. It can be easily spotted against the clear blue sky.
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
I sit, motionless, a gormless look across my face.
Mouth open, eyes empty, staring at nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Bored beyond the point of no return,
Just letting eternity slowly, very slowly pass by.
It never does.
The teacher tells us to work, but gives us no indication of how.
You can’t do something with nothing.
The clock hands finally move.
Everyone adjusts their eyes.
I am sure every minute takes at least five.
Awkward silence is disturbed by the occasional passing of a page.
Nobody bothers to show an interest in anything except the time.
I begin to wonder if both my watch and the clock are broken.
Highly unlikely.
Whispers are engulfed by orders of silence.
The hypocritical teacher has an everlasting throat tickle.
The minute hand doesn’t move this time,
For time has finally stopped.
I motionlessly sit, wishing, praying that the silence would be broken.
This was written in a free class when there was legitimately no work to be done.
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
In 1995 when I was four
And watching films like all the other boys,
I heard great Tom and Tim and sat in awe,
As they told me a story about toys.

I met a boy (called Andy) just like me
Obsessed with cowboys, dinosaurs and war.
His toys, they came to life. He failed to see.
Their lives revolved around his closing door.

They soon became my friends and helped me grow.
I saw them once again in ninety nine.
Ole’ Buzz and Woody taught me all they know,
But failed to tell me when it would be time.

Now Andy’s off to college as am I
And to our childhoods we must say goodbye.
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
On my bed, giving life to the latest poem
And suddenly a soft sound scratches my ears.
Again, again, again, constant:
One, two, three and there it is again –
Frustration flicking my bedroom window,
Staining that sparkly pane with its insane irritation.
The pain sounds again.
A delightful butterfly struggles to contemplate
The gap between the glasses of my prison wall.
Beautiful; fluttering frantically; fragile.
My intentions are purer than the billion colours
That elegantly engulf those deceptive eyes.
I delicately, ever so delicately urge
That curious creature back to nature’s beauty,
Urge it away from the blandness of the bedroom,
But humanity has never, will never be so forgiving.
My little push is the destruction of such beauty:
Maimed for freedom, slaughtered for escape,
A victim of war, humanity’s war.
I feel guilt but more so regret,
That, although that poor creature
Suffered such an untimely demise,
He had achieved a life worth living:
A butterfly who freely fluttered
The bedrooms of the world,
And escaped the irony of being
More humane than man could ever dream.
I envy that poor, superior creature,
For I am just a butterfly breaker.
I am just an animal.
This incident did happen, only it wasn't a butterfly, but a small insect with wings. It was completely accidental as I was trying to let it out of my room... It gave me the inspiration for the poem
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
A jet-ski, jetty bound, disturbs the waves,
While not too far away, on the seabed
Lies the hungry blacktip and hammerhead,
As a nurse explores the undersea caves.

Harvey wouldn’t capture Marlin here,
Just a glance of turtle, seaweed green,
Gasping at the stuffy air, marine,
Gazing at a sunset he should fear.

The sharks hunt for prey in mere hours.
A flock of ching-chings squawk away,
As mosquitoes come out to play,
Darting between darkening flowers.

Through mosquito nets I take a peek,
In oasis that I realise,
Snuggled in a palm tree lies
A curled green parrot, sound asleep.
Blacktip, hammerhead, and nurse are all types of sharks. Harvey refers to Guy Harvey, a famous painter of marine life, most noted for drawing Marlins. Ching-chings are a colloquial term for blackbirds. Green Parrots are indigenous to the Cayman Islands.
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
Staring at her beauty - that’s a sin
You were told when you were young that beauty lies within
But it’s hard to not be human
It’s hard to tell such lies
When her beauty makes you fly
And touch the mountains of the skies.

You think that I am shallow
And that’s why I am alone?
They’ll say:
“You’re like a sinking stone
When you’re sat on your throne
You’re going to hit the ground eventually.”

“And like an aeroplane
While there’s others to blame
You know it doesn’t crash naturally.”

And it hurts.
For eyes and mouth seldom operate the same.
I guess that’s down to chemistry!
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
The most refreshing of breezes holds you,
And you utter a sigh of pure happiness.
The sound of water splashing the shore,
Sloppily fumbling into the pool-side drain.
The sprinkles on the cake sparkle -
Stars are just as sweet,
Little beams of hope escaping the banality of life,
Escaping chalk - a dull blackboard cannot retain it.
Even the artificial blinding of humanity
Cannot take away from such beauty.
Palm trees are at their most stunning
At twilight, dancing to the rhythm of nature -
Darkness is much more majestic
Than it has been given credit.
The moon is but a sliver,
A small rip in the pitch black fabric of the sky-
It is smiling, a smile of pure content.
Believe me, my good friend, the feeling is mutual.
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
How can a war be ‘Great’ or ‘Civil’,
When people are sure to die?
Seen by God and the Devil,
Or simply through a child’s eye?

For how can a battle be won,
When the dead will eternally lose?
When cowering behind a gun,
Nobody has the right to choose.

Big men boast of intelligence,
They think they’re number one,
But even apes know the significance
Of Cowering behind a gun.

Is it simply because they’re beastly?
Their technology has backfired!
Their fighting simply disgusts me.
Like other children I am tired.

Why do rich men speak of victory?
Do they think the battle is won?
While these animals line their pockets,
There are children out there, like me,
Cowering behind a gun.
This was written a while ago... as I'm nearly 20 now :P
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
You could have been my Catalan queen.
Such a pocket-sized delight,
Like the one sung by Jack White,
But more of a fun and friendly scene.

You studied graphic design,
And looked after my Spanish group,
And made me want to always stoop
To embrace you for all time.

I'd have given the world to see that smile,
See your beauty one more time,
Sit down with a glass of wine,
Or beer, sangria for a little while.

The offer was open, disguised by others,
And I strongly felt that you were keen,
But, alas, the student's disco scene
Would prevent us from being lovers.

And so I sit, alone with pen,
And mourn what was never meant to be -
It breaks my heart that it is likely
That we will never meet again.
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
A volcano of anger erupts around you;
Tears sting as they stream down your face,
Filling each pore with a burning sensation -
White, life has left without a trace.

Furious screams spew up into the air,
Splatter the sky and melt away dreams.
While the molten rock will eventually cool,
The damage has been done, it seems.

A saddened look caught forever in time,
You stand there, frozen, forever hurt.
Scalded once for a sinful crime,
One touch of fire - forever burnt.

You’re but a shadow, coloured grey,
The same that paints a pained Pompeii.
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
The sun that day was too bright.
The sign outside my high school,
Lettering black on white,
Protected by a wooden frame.
“No school” had always been cool,
But not since Ivan came.

It says “School Closed Tomorrow,
Listen to Radio for Update”
For most this sign brings sorrow,
For some it’s just a little too late.

A mass of rubble outside the doors,
Wreckage rife.
Churning water destroyed these floors,
And wrecked life.
A loss of pens and many a book,
Utter devastation,
Students work old Ivan took,
Along with education.
Tears shed as I have to leave-
A tiny demonstration
Of the destruction Ivan’s flooding caused.
I did leave, but not before I paused,
And cried for God’s creation.
Thomas Newlove Apr 2018
Sitting in the sun,
Watching old movies,
The Australian heat
Washes up against my feet.
The dog shakes off the afternoon
And snoozes by the couch
And all our troubles melt away
Like the ice cream now resting
In our stomachs.
Sweet peace,
The ignorance of it all.
Only at the cost of our minds
Do we chase our tails and sunbathe
On the crisp autumn grass.
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
Driving past the roundabout.
Beatles on, roof down.
Been working like a dog,
And when we go around
I am reminded of Yeats
And his widening gyre –
A concept quite curious,
His genius I admire.
High on happiness,
The battle today is done.
His words consume my heart away
As my shades reflect the sun.

The music: loud,
Really loud, too loud,

Each second stripped away,
Pushed coolly across my face
And through my hair like the
Blustery breeze.
I feel so at ease,
But not for long, for today,
Time turns against me in that race.

Race, race faster.
Go fast,

The fateful call comes.
I must accept it
And ignorantly fall foul
Of the unexpected,
As the fumes of summer fruit –
The movement of strawberry sales,
Crosses the beaten asphalt.
My face rapidly pales.

Turning and turning,
Spinning half a dozen.
Anarchy loosened, burning –
My rough beast has risen.

I fail to feel alright,
Drenched in a poppy field!
The music is slowly dying,

A revolution has been fought,
Restrained as the summer breeze
Is stopped, then turned on its head.
I marvel at the distant trees
Spinning, so dizzy I can barely move.
Crushed car, blood dripping, crushing me.
The world is as red as those pitiless poppies
And I discover the truth:
They will be the last thing I see,

The last glimpses of life:
Choke, choke,
Eyes spiralling,
Choking, blood,
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
A dark blue duvet delicately sown,
A patchwork of delicate squares,
It is here where I soundly sleep alone,
It is here where nobody cares.

Those carefully crafted covers were made
As a net to catch my dreams.
It is here within my sleep I wade,
Swimming my slumber streams.

I twist and turn but can’t escape
From the nightmares that I fear,
But when a beautiful dream I make
The net knows the end is near.

I panic as it dives beneath the sea
And I try to recapture it yet,
I fail and fall, but delicately
I am caught in the dream catchers net.
As corny as they come... but it is easy to read!
Thomas Newlove Apr 2018
It seems a while since Jesus died.
Not that I believe in the chap,
But if he were magically real, I'd
Think he'd be appalled at all this crap.

It seems a while since laundries reigned
And women were shamed and sent away,
But, alas, we've lost as much as gained
As men control our fate today.

It seems a while since Markievicz fought,
But still didn't suffer the fate of men.
Different powers today have sold and bought,
But it's power the same as it was then.

It seems a while since rampant abuse -
We thought they'd run out of kids to **** -
Of course, I'm joking, there's always an excuse
To **** and ruck and then not look.

This Easter let's bow our heads and pray
And think about our moral code.
Just kidding, there's ***** on Good Friday -
We'll be hung-over as we erode.
Thomas Newlove Jan 2016
We put our teachers on a pedestal,
Until we age, and mature, and stifle.

They wear cardigans and reading glasses,
While teaching spelling and grammar classes,

And have an impeccably insufferable wit -
A world of puns amidst the world's dark grit.

So who would think that life's next station
Would involve discussing punctuation?

And passing that, believe it far -
Sharing drinks in a grotty bar?!

But here I am amidst my friends
(Despite not knowing them at ends)

Discussing the art of lesbianism,
Islam, clowns, and feminism,

How men are pigs and life is ****,
And how innuendoes always fit,

How therapy would be depressing
(Despite depression being the issue pressing.)

Oh, how girls can dance whilst sitting down
With words, and lips, and laughs and frowns,

With obscene gestures with their hands,
And tongues and drinks, and stories grand,

By uplifting life to a higher beat -
A rhythm that can trap your feet
And click your fingers.

English language teachers don't
Dance how I imagined them to...
And yet, I'm sad when the music's through
And my memory of them
And that simple, yet brutally important night
For two new friends who might be reading...
Thomas Newlove Apr 2016
We drink to 'guise our fraught depression -
A mask staging a good impression.

A drink and darkness cocktail vice,
And one that comes at quite a price:

I'm one who likes a beer or two
To take the edge off feeling blue.

She likes to douse her thoughts with cider
To fill the emptiness inside her.

When feeling down we'll have a stout
To help us force the demons out.

He takes his ale so he can feel
That different kind of numb appeal.

The girlfriends go for lots of wine
To help them say their feeling fine,

Or they sometimes call for ***** shots -
Or tequila shots, and often, lots.

The lads drink whiskey on the rocks
To knock the cotton off their socks.

While your poison always comes with lime
To prolong the certainty of time.

She takes gin with a dash of tonic
To try avoid being laconic.

You like to take your Coke with *** -
For glum is oft best paired with numb.

We start to settle down for an all-nighter
And dream that the noose grows a naggin tighter.
*naggin - a naggin in Ireland is a 200 ml bottle of spirits
Thomas Newlove Feb 2019
And who would have thought
That it would be here?
Sandwiched into a backseat
Between a sleeping Chinese man
And a dear friend,
Behind a sleeping couple
Lovingly caught in a snoozy embrace
In a cramped Chinese bus
Amidst a bustling buzzing Beijing
As the sun seeped through
A smoggy winter's sky.

Who would have thought
That it would be here?
Being soothed by her playlist -
A sort of modern mix-tape
Full of love and thought
And desperate longing
And lust, more love
And the most intimate
Of gestures.

Who could have thought
That it would be here?
Here, where an epiphany forms,
Against a sea of weather-beaten, weary and reddened faces,
That my darling, sweet Isabelle
Is made of ******* poetry.
Isabelle rhymes with telly.
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
Because you said you're poetry inclined,
And because I have something on my mind,
(Along with the fact I have a long walk home),
I thought it fitting I would write this poem -

To express, permitting it doesn't sound too weird,
(Despite the fact I have a paedo beard),
My joy on bumping into you this night -
A darkish day upon which you made bright.

For, although you joke that bi-annual contact best
To being friends, I do have to suggest
That since I've been back home it's helped a deal
To talk to friends over drinks or a meal

About the seemingly insignificant things.
Nobody appreciates the joy this brings!
To a fool like me, who quite frankly is saved
By hearing how friends have acted or behaved,

Like success in college or thoughts that you are fat
(A ridiculous suggestion - I'll vanquish thoughts of that!)
Because collectively I don't exaggerate,
They have pulled me from Hell's (once soothing) gate...

So, I suppose, I'm trying to say thanks for being a friend
And because I don't see you enough
I feel like I can get away
With acting all gooey and stuff
And, quite frankly, a bit gay.
A poem I wrote for a friend of mine as a bit of a joke/challenge with a long walk home after a great catch-up
Thomas Newlove Jun 2016
It started with a touch -
Nothing and everything special,
A gentle hand on the arm
As a sort of comforting reassurance
In a friendly-stranger-sort-of-way.
A way of saying everything is fine -
I'm talking to you because I want to
Not because I feel obliged to.
It was that simple gesture
That made me fall in love with you.
And there, senoras y senores,
Is your answer.
I fall in love too easily.
Poets fall in love too easily,
And each for different reasons -
All with a psychological deficiency,
Or maybe psychological necessity.
Mine, it becomes clear to me now,
Is the desperate desire to be held
In any meaningful way
For as long as possible.
And that acknowledgement
Brings forth logic and reason:
I know very few things about her
And always will.
She is a passing poet's love...
Just red hair and a sense of humour
Caught in a fortnight's daydream.
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
A kind friend died this week –
A nineteen year young man.
Falling and rising all in one
And now it is sleep I seek;
Comfort that something has a plan;
And the tears that will not come.

Those that knew him many years
From blood, childhood or school,
Or friends who know only kindness and giving.
They are the ones that bring sleep and tears,
Reminding us that life, no matter how cruel,
Is, and always will be, worth living.

When times are tough and life holds pain
My friends are there to help bear the load,
Warming the fire whilst relieving me of coal.
They bring sunshine to a life of rain,
Protecting me when the fires explode
And breathing life into a poor, confused, and lost soul.
(2011) Dedicated to Tommy, an unforgotten friend, and all my friends that make life so much more meaningful than it sometimes seems to be.
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
Gather round people; sit close to the flames,
Away from the bitterness, hatred and blames,
Away from the snow and the icicle pains,
In the hope that the fire remains.

Gather round people and hold out your hands,
And clasp them with others, shake off the demands
Of the cold – by listening to Christmas bands,
In the hope that the cold understands.

Hands are now warmed by your friends and the fire,
And though snow’s still falling the cold starts to tire
Because nothing but friendship makes you perspire,
In a cold that will never retire.

Now you are clustered - a finger apart.
The snow beating down can’t remember the start.
The goosebumps remain – it’s the shivers that part
As friends warm the fire of your heart.
Thomas Newlove Oct 2016
In a world where horrors lurk on every corner
When terror's found on every news report
When violence is celebrated at the movies
And death is seen by elders as a sport

It's no surprise that Halloween is hip
That costumes and liquor are our daily bread
And that the "scariest" 'guise people can think up
Is a ****, whorish version of the dead.
Note to self: should probably change the third line to "When violence has become the new world order"
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
Bus, man, world, waiting.
Orange, blue, sand, sea.
Home, dream, stop time -
Eyes just like life.
Pain finally away.
Artsy tripe of the highest order! Every word in this poem comes from the 19 most used words in my poems on this website(according to Hello Poetry, as of about 15 minutes ago) Enjoy, or criticise... :)
Thomas Newlove Sep 2016
Several years ago I became depressed
And fled from my independence
Into the seductive arms of my home
In the hope that it would cure me of my
Chronic feelings of discomfort, angst, and misery.
In my head, it was a sanctuary,
A place I could go to free my mind
And find warmth and comfort.
Nothing has changed in my head
And I had forgotten how much of a nomad
I actually was and that home is just a myth
We tell ourselves to make ourselves feel
Warm and fuzzy and not so desperately alone
And now I'm wondering why all I found here
Was perpetual headaches and continued heartache
With the added benefit of cake.
Thomas Newlove Aug 2016
I've been a nomad oft to roam
For what seems like an endless time,
But meeting you, of all girls, here,
And strolling down Dun Laoghaire pier
Against the full moon's ghostly shine
Whilst French kissing and holding hands;
Debating life's endless demands -
You made me feel like I was home.
Dun Laoghaire is pronounced like "done leery"
Thomas Newlove Jan 2016
The dry-stale phlegm of cider on those morning-afternoons,
The pounding of your head aside the clangs of coffee spoons,
The dreary, heavy weariness that's clogging up your eyes,
The alcoholic drinks them all until the day he dies.
Thomas Newlove Oct 2017
How am I supposed to cope,
When even the morning sky
Conspires against me?

How do I have a hope,
When over the morning hill
Your pink marshmallow hair
Echoes through the firmament
Of my days?

How am I supposed to cope,
When I can't count the ways
In which you make my heart sing?
My heart ache?
It's more than I can take.

I don't know what it meant,
But a bird with wounded wing
Stumbled through the air
And wobbled towards the train tracks to die.
Well... maybe that's a lie.
I do.
Thomas Newlove Sep 2015
If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back to yesterday.
To feel the pain I felt again -
A price I deserve to pay.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back two weeks,
To before you found out any of this,
To before my love-drunk speech.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back two months ago.
If I could erase the mistakes I made
I'd erase them for you now.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back a year,
Before we'd even become good friends,
So you'd never shed a tear.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back to '92,
And **** my new-born infant self,
And make the world a treat for you...
Thomas Newlove Nov 2015
If only we'd known
A dead child was what
The white people needed
To start to care and solve
The problems of the war-torn,
***** Third-World.
We could have drowned one
Years ago in a luxury
Bubble bath and saved all
The inconvenience of
Distracting us from
The Kardashians
And making us uncomfortable
And having to worry about
Whether they will
Take our jobs or
Become our neighbours
And then we would
Have to stumble over
The pronunciation of their
Very foreign names
And worry about their
Very foreign ways
And whether or not our
Train journeys to work
Would be targeted by ISIS,
Or, perhaps, our holiday
Flight to the Mediterranean,
With its simply darling little
Features that are just so
At least it would make a
Tragic story
To discuss over brunch
With the ladies of leisure
While they get off
On the intimate pleasure
Of donating old clothes
(Expensive ones mind you! -
The refugees won't know
They're born) to charity.
If only we'd known.
We'd have been able
To help ourselves sooner
Before it stopped being chic.
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
Film forms fast on a grainy screen
For pictures flicker from projector’s beam.

“So long, partner” through tears I see.
You know you’ll always have a friend in me.

Anarchy, insanity, beyond belief –
The death of a human, the rise of a Chief.

Nerves, a name, a limp and a fear
That the infamous Söze will soon disappear.

A dream within a dream within a dream on the screen?
That Nolan’s a mind-blowing genius machine!

Ants, an eye, and an awful lot of thinking
About what the hell that Buñuel was drinking!
Some films... I wouldn't take this poem too seriously.
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
Summer’s Sunday morning trickles into life
As the sun shimmers through the tired trees.

Dew drips from the waking grass
Onto the course crust of the loamy soil.

The crisp sound of the swelling tides is eased
By the tiresome swish of a lazy breeze.

Sweat slides down a flustered face
While the scorching sun stifles the pores.

Ice crackles in a glassy cage
As refreshing fruit juice flows into life.

And deckchair viewers watch while runners scythe
A grassy field as a goal tickles an empty net.
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
Comic relief can’t numb the pain within.
An indestructible toilet stands alone.
That lonely toilet made of white porcelain,
Is all that’s left of some poor man’s home.
This is inspired by a photo I have at home of the aftermath of Hurricane Ivan, which struck the Cayman Islands (where I used to live) in 2004. The picture is of a two storey house, the upstairs completely ripped off. The only thing remaining on the top floor apart from debris and wooden framework is the toilet, in a relatively untouched state.... Makes you laugh until you cry :)
Thomas Newlove Dec 2016
My eyes gaze through the stuttered blinds,
And cast a pan across the place
Of golden, hazy meadow days
As smoke chokes from the fireplace,
And I behold a sea of gold
As it competes with emerald grass,
A sea of frosty emerald-gold
That casts itself against the mass
Of endless, dimming Christmas lights
As mid-'noon soon comes fading in
To dim winter's late-'noon delights,
But not before, with golden grin,
The sun sprays wonders through the land,
Wonders atop the chimney stacks,
The grass, the houses, and the blinds
As golden tears go gleaming back.
Thomas Newlove Oct 2017
I need to write to stop my head from exploding,
I need to ooze before I scream out loud,
I need to pour my heart out before eroding,
Falling and disappearing in a cloud.

The day was long, and body, brain were aching,
The train was slow, and sleep a welcome craze,
But then I saw her face, and started shaking,
And life became a devastating haze.

She walked right past beside her caring mother,
And didn't say a word or look my way,
I'd do anything to call her my lover
But couldn't know what possibly to say.

I hadn't seen her for a month or more,
For she abandoned all communication
To cure depression, she shut my door,
And left me holding my own devastation.

I'm back at home but don't know how I got here.
I called her but it just confirmed my fears.
She blocked me and I just need to know that she's okay
And that there is a light at the end of the tunnel
Because her depression came sneaking up behind me
And asked if mine would come out and play
And it said yes but only if you drink more
And consider thoughts of dying more seriously this time
And hey look there's the *** we bought
And hey, you're right, you justified my fears
And hey, if she's happy you'd **** yourself just to know
And hey, if not, ******* hell you so desperately want to help
And hey, if you can't, you'd ******* die trying
And hey, I guess this *** is saltier than most
And hey, I guess this does confirm my fears
That the *** goes down as roughly as the tears.
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
It's hard for me to say how I feel sometimes,
With all the ups and downs,
And violent, stomach-churning, headaches
That violate basic concepts of biology.

It's hard for me to say how I know
What it would feel like to drown in wet cement
And how my throat would feel as it started to harden,
My lungs to shatter whilst freezing in time.
But I do.

It's hard for me to say to my parents that I'm unhappy.
They, who raised me well and gave me privilege,
And brought me to live in the ******* Caribbean,
And enabled me to go to university.

It's hard for me to say that I'm depressed.
That life itself has revealed its true ****-stained form.
That I'm unsatisfied with my privilege,
The things that they sacrificed for me. That they mean nothing.
But it's true.

It's hard for me to say that I'm depressed.
But it is a necessity.
It is keeping me alive.
Reminding me that there is something wrong with me.
But I can be okay.

It's hard for me to say that I'm depressed.
But I can be okay.
Can't I?
There are good days and bad but it never seems to leave...
It is a shadow cast over my being,
Cast over my brain.
But I can be okay.
Can't I?
It's hard for me to say...
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
I open my blinds to a golden haze,
As the colour ironically blinds me.
A swift turn averts his burning gaze
And my favourite t-shirt finds me.
It says ‘Mr. Cool’! It’s find – a peach!
It does what it says it would do –
It cools me down on my favourite beach
Because it’s all blue.

The palm trees dance and the ching-chings caw
As the soft sand burns my feet,
But I bury them deeper in the flawless floor
‘Cause I cannot feel the heat.
A few fluffy clouds caress the sky
And pose for pictures new,
Then they gently drift slowly by
To leave the canvas blue.

I step into the Caribbean waves
And my troubles abandon me.
Perplexed by the corals sunburned maze
As I gently drift to sea.
The pain subsides like the weary surf
And I drift to pastures new.
The sea helps erode the purple hurt
Because it’s all blue.

My shirt, the sand and the sun-splashed sky:
They now engulf my world.
The sound of a seagull’s desperate cry
Is seen but can’t be heard.
This fuzzy grave is a safety net,
I know that much is true.
I’m leaving Earth but I’ll never forget
That it was all blue...
This is one of my favourite poems (of mine) and it was my first attempt at a poem that could be sung. I'm (as I write) using it (along with a short story I wrote) to write a script called "All Blue". Comments would be greatly appreciated!
Thomas Newlove Jul 2015
There are some days
When one fatal heart-wrenching
Rejection can cascade into a torrent
Of gut-punching, sick-inducing barrages of failure.
One rejection after another for one long week
Of un...something misery.

The first, well, I saw it coming.
There was a heavy inevitability about it in the air
Like the thick sweat before a summer storm.
Yet, despite this, almost foreknowledge,
My heart still lies in shattered pieces,
My head awash with regret, self-loathing,
And a deep inexplicable sadness.
Swiss chocolate - she was meaningless,
Surely soon forgettable,
But in that moment ever so sweet...
And the sight of her would brighten up my day.

The second was a reminder of my "situation" -
That constant battle between our demons and our angels,
The latter of whom have mostly hung themselves by this stage,
Or drowned themselves in vats of ciders,
Awaiting judgement or an epiphany.
Maybe they were waiting for a train,
And the demons simply gave a firm push,
Or whispered sweet infinities into your ears
As they bristled against the breeze atop a tall building.

The third was another, somewhat self-inflicted, destruction.
Less a rejection, and more an ultimatum:
"Sort your ******* life out Thomas
Because you're ruining hers tall, dark, and handsomely."
- That's not what she said, but it stung,
More or less, with the same venom,
Whilst maintaining that same tinge of flirtatious tone.
Somehow I stumbled into this mess without malicious intent -
Just a stupid little boy with a box of matches,
And a canister of petrol, and a blissful unawareness
Of the inevitable inferno.
Undoubtedly, the demons are laughing
At all the tears that will surely come.

The fourth was particularly unfortunate.
In classic "Thomas" style my first thoughts were to hit restart.
I wonder if all Thomas' are arseholes?
I mean obviously Edison was, and no doubt
There was malice behind Thomas the Tank Engine's smug grin,
But I wonder if it is a scientific certainty, or just dumb luck?
Needless to say I packed my bags in my head
And applied for the trabajo.
New start. New beginning. Old cliché.
And inevitable rejection -
One I didn't see due to my
Rebounded energy to avoid failure.
The repetitive nature of life's cycle is somewhat nauseating.
What kind of sadist designed this ride?
I wonder if his name was Thomas too?
Ah well, I've nothing better to do. "Another go, please."
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