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1.2k · Jan 2014
Oliver & Anna
Tim Knight Jan 2014
for Beginners*

imagine a disposable razor
on the oldest face you know,
deteriorated and dropped,
the sun's shadow in the cropped crowd

               we forget he's there sometimes, they'll say.
               he always shaves on a Sunday, they'll pray.
               the dog died not long back, some'll whisper.

imagine a week's worth of beard
down a plug hole, some bits black
some bits gray,
some bits there 'cos he pressed a little hard that day

                              we forgot he was there, they'll say.
                              he always shaved on a Sunday, they'll pray.
                              only a week ago he went, some'll whisper.

imagine no one holding your hand
down the stairs, across the road, into
cheap 24 hour corner shops,
imagine no one holding your hand when it matters,

                                               or mattered.
www.coffeeshoppoems.com
1.1k · Apr 2013
CHILD'S DEAD
Tim Knight Apr 2013
Pin up nurses in blue and
black,
automatic manual doors grow
and contract,
windows that mist and condensate,
bells that annoy for no apparent reason
other than to be late.

Hospital beds.
Child's dead.
The mother's dread.
Just fake a smile. Just fake a smile. Just fa-

-send forth the balloons, cards and grapes
in an attempt to sew the stitches of
one broken womb:
a womb where the roof was torn
by precision tools and an expert eye,
though the doctors said the kid would live,
I believe they lied-
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1.1k · Sep 2013
Drops On Your Lips
Tim Knight Sep 2013
You said save the Damsel,
but she's in no distress

I'm selfishly half dressed and less
awake than my clothes expect me to be

You said woo her with poetry,
but I'm out of back-of-receipts and torn off edges

I'm tired, and the shiraz has got to me
it started tunnelling through hollowed veins hours back

You said she'll be gone with the dew
leaving nothing but drops on your lips
from Coffeeshoppoems.com, an online poetry blog
1.1k · Dec 2013
AUGUST & WHAT IT BRINGS
Tim Knight Dec 2013
Then there's the the nurses in blue
who always knew that we knew
that the news wasn't good.

Then there's the patient, whom jaundice
is rolling the dice for them,
sat still, long and thin
in a bed pinned to the ward
like a to do list on a cork board,
but the only job for it to do
is wait to fill out the paper work.

Then there's the family in black
who always sat back when
the funeral guidance guy visited with his hardback leather-bound funeral pack.

Then there's the sight of my father's eyes so red,
my sister's cheeks swelling up like that and
witnessing my mother bind a broken book back together again.
from coffeeshoppoems.com
1.1k · May 2013
ROBERT FROST LIED TO US
Tim Knight May 2013
There is no road,
though Frost told us so
and it is cold tonight and
I have no place to go.

Home is but a ride away,
cigarette’s are in the ashtray, dried,
and I do not smoke them each day
not since my last try.

My bed is clean; white and tidy,
that’s the third time since Friday, I’ve planned
ahead this week but not taken it lightly,
they’ve left me lonesome and unmanned.
From coffeeshoppoems.com
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1.1k · Mar 2014
Two Seasons Left
Tim Knight Mar 2014
Season's greetings, or the omission of a hand to hold
when it's winter bleak, miserable and cold.

Two weeks away in the sun, or campsite summer-lit mornings
and sand in our sandals from an evening on the shore.

The dew puddles are forming,
its stagnant river sister foaming
with cream lips at the edge of the white water;
she's whispering well-thought-through white noise
because she knows of the future to come,
the upriver source told her that you've
two seasons left to sort yourself out.
coffeeshoppoems.com
1.1k · Sep 2013
A NOTE TO BUKOWSKI
Tim Knight Sep 2013
Feeling fairly good tonight,
a note to Bukowski to drink again.*

I lost the hours of nine,
ten and one to the wine, bought
but days before in a rush out the door;
it was wet and I was late
to a meeting with myself in a basement
where windows wait upstairs, the casement
a see-through hole to everything outside,
to everything I want to be-

- it's a silent show when these days happen,
usually conjured up from empty pockets
and the need to be nowhere important,
safety curtains fall in front of shops:
they are not libraries for browsing
they are establishments for purchasing-in-

nine and ten came back to me,
one still escapes though, lost
to the palm of a waitress taking the money.
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1.1k · Apr 2013
RUNAWAY FROM THE NICE GIRL
Tim Knight Apr 2013
Y'know there's those buildings you see
when escaping over the motorway and fleeing the country;
those same pitched roofs along the line,
streetlight tall like eager broken spines;
many-a architect's hand has been there with their
continuous ink, connecting that brick to that corner link,
drawing straight edge drain and eye sore pain,
those red doors and white doors and those PVC ***** doors that always
stand rigid,
though their locks stay locked until they're next visited.

Well those buildings are what you see
when you're fleeing from someone who hasn't let you free.
Tim Knight Apr 2013
Open internet bookmarked pages,
creased and cut newspaper pages
and what do you find laying there?
Lies! Written and typed white lies
that can change the minds of men
and the diet restrictions of nervous, plump women.

I know what is real, I think:
          1. Gradient blue skies that are swiped across the Cambridge ceiling at night. They are real.
          2. The feelings you feel for those you have felt feelings for. They’re real
          3. Falling hail and wet shoes, socks moist with Spring’s choice of weather. That was real.
          4. Falling shrapnel of the Boston Bombs that embedded themselves into the tired thighs of  marathon runners running upon high. That was real.
          5.  This poem may well be real, but I haven’t the guts to say in concrete-words that it matters in the grand scheme of things. This might not be real, I regularly think.
coffeeshoppoems.com
1.1k · Apr 2014
FIFTH
Tim Knight Apr 2014
If you’d just hold out your arms and lead;
force feed my feet to eat up the floor and once I - promise -
find that rhythm I will tip the tables and turn them so you’ll
be led in a waltz around the place, until your head is hidden by your hair and the dub-step-house-trance coming from the speakers turns to Mozart’s fifth, a symphony that features woodwind and strings in an endless kiss.

Will we dance to all four movements? you say

*Yes, until we become a dance floor nuisance, something more than a blur and an illusion and we're asked to leave.
coffeeshoppoems.com
1.1k · Sep 2013
KATE OR COLLETTE & KEVIN
Tim Knight Sep 2013
Five children, a sixth on the way,
the eldest around 7,
the others barely walking.

The Dad looks like a Kevin,
heavy arms bringing his shoulders down
to the top of his daughter’s head,
he feeds and is fed on
nothing but steak, pan fried and
broiled
for succulent juices to run down his shirt
uncoiling and picking up the pace
from face to stomach, a slight overhang
so his belt never sees the light.

The Mum stays quiet,
a Kate or Collette,
but she says nothing,
just stands there carrying his sixth baby
keeping it away from the narrow traffic to the side of her.

Five children, a sixth on the way,
the eldest around 7,
all waiting to start another academic year.
from coffeeshoppoems.com -  a place for no-nonsense poetry
1.1k · Oct 2013
Edward Lear To My Ear
Tim Knight Oct 2013
she lent over the bed rail,
wooden and put together by her husband.

without the book she recited the tale,
word perfect and rehearsed and she quickened

with the story, picking up the pace
to the bit where she placed her engagement ring upon my face,

the nose to be precise, and it smelt
of every perfume kiosk in every shopping hall and mall.

the ***** cat said to the owl, in the sequel to the story-
and for another bedtime completely-

'you're the cherry on the tree, un-pick-able
by hand or bird, stay with me please,
I heard marriage doesn't last forever'
from >>> Coffeeshoppoems.com
1.1k · Feb 2014
INHERITANCE
Tim Knight Feb 2014
the silk won't stop you
it'll only act as a soft-to-touch glaze for a scar yet to form
and by all means fall over into pretty positions
but don't blame the alcohol.
That breezer-pint-shot-and-gill in your limp right hand
is a mask: a tied at the back ribbon to cover up your desired task of falling into the arms
of him,
or him,
or him,
or him,
or him over there.

just because drama school and it's endless auditions
didn't let you in, doesn't mean this Wetherspoons should either:
take a knee
have a breather
coffeeshoppoems.com
1.1k · Feb 2013
FINDING A HOME
Tim Knight Feb 2013
No one feels more alone when feeling alone in another darkened hometown.*

He went and wandered,
kerb crawled and begged,
asked for four quid
then left when he got it, though
two pounds less than he wanted;
away, away, away, away, away,
away he’ll go again,
vagabond turned drifter,
God talking, kneel praying, church attending, Amen.

When the already sirens
start up, wind up,
swing around merrily in their
egg shell cups upon and above
the panda-car-cop,
he’ll wake to wander again
until the day his body flails
and gives in, drops to the floor
in a melodramatic stop.

For this forever New York,
with its high rise chimney tops
and siren's scare,
is no place to sleep without
a home to go home too.
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Tim Knight Apr 2013
for Denim McLein

The car had jumped the curb at speed,
it was gray and dull and 2 foot high.

On Thursday, 12 men with guns on their thighs
took notes and talked and looked around and choked.

Tears fell from 24 eyes on Friday at the station,
for a 3 year old was mowed down in a moment
of miscalculation.

The 18:45 four-door sedan has blood
on its hands.
coffeeshoppoems.com
1.1k · Apr 2014
OXFAM QUEUE
Tim Knight Apr 2014
My tummy stood still; a statue of a stomach that paused as she passed by
to get into the used bookshop line to pay for her basket of titles and authors I'd
no idea existed, but I'd be willing to learn and read and not breathe until I had
enlisted the use of Wikipedia to find out a one fact about each of them so to break the ice
and breach that border of conversation, because I'd want to tell her in some Woody Allen
way that her eyes were nice and that Cambridge could be ours tonight if she wanted to.
from, coffeeshoppoems.com
Tim Knight Mar 2014
This body is a poor man's idea of grandeur-
and Talk To Frank says that confidence doesn't come in tubes,
pills nor injections, but when tomorrow morning you
feel like **** with a stomach-pit of methylamphetamine
and a head craving caffeine,
you'll disagree and say to him,

*Look, I talked to a girl I wouldn't normally talk to and we kissed.
1.1k · Jul 2013
LIPS ON A MOUTH
Tim Knight Jul 2013
lips on her mouth
spitting sweet nicotine south
with a smile to conclude
tonight's entertainment
and this morning's mood.

French accents on video screens
and blind blank volume dreams
that plunge our village into darkness,
houses and shops made with black
cotton tops where the heartless live and breathe.

legs that stretch,
legs that are worth more than I can fetch,
legs that hurt, kick and wreck
those you cannot forgive or
pay back debts;
debts in excess  of hundreds,
a size 16 dress size prize that you'll never be able to buy back now that it has been plundered
by greedy hands, and worse,
a shifting sand lifestyle.
coffee
shop
poems
.com
Tim Knight Dec 2012
Depends what your idea of colour is
or if your forever will ever exist.
Too many ink lines on one too many lists,
another reason for you to invest in one kiss.
Visit them, pay them,
lay next to them in Milan:
as there you can let every crease
unravel and unfurl,
let the block roll on,
like every Italian street.

Here, a fake friend has helped you
write a novel,
she helped you out of that darker hovel-
where you once sat and laid,
cut yourself off from
apartment rent and all the prices paid.
www.coffeeshoppoems.com/
1.1k · Nov 2013
Parker's Piece
Tim Knight Nov 2013
The cordoned off cricket pitch,
behind orange tape long,
is waiting for the grass to grow
for when the summer comes along.

The leaves are shedding their autumn gown,
upon the grass it lays,
and in her winter-time-zipped-up coat
a small girl runs and plays.

The benches around the park border
sit solemn, scuffed and lonely,
if only someone would put them back together again
before they become broken debris

The sky lengthens overhead,
a puzzling sight to see,
it stretches forth over the horizon line
buckling past the old oak trees,

and the people walk in straight lines narrow,
concentrating on the ground,
if only they’d look up not  down,
they’d see the city’s teeth and not it’s frown
coffeeshoppoems.com >> visit for more free poetry
1.1k · Sep 2013
Pauses For Beauty
Tim Knight Sep 2013
squeeze you to read you,
the pores that pour out hidden punctuation
that defines and makes and creates pauses for
you to look beautiful in.

there are two velux windows somewhere
in the world that look out onto chimney pots
and rooftops and birds next to each other looking
out over a flight plan that they'll fly together.

in pub seats we'll slide into and across,
placing coats on empty chairs so not to be stolen
and you pause. And out comes a list from behind a breath and a
colon: everything you wish to achieve in a year.
coffeeshoppoems.com
1.1k · Jan 2013
7 CAMBRIDGE COLLEGE BOYS
Tim Knight Jan 2013
7 Cambridge college boys
around a table for two,
taking the whole casual-coffee
thing to new heights;
a mighty gathering of elbow patches and tweed,
with absolutely no pipes-
some come from a non-smoking family.

And that last sentence: not a lie nor a word of figment, but an overheard gobbet of pure ‘I’m-not-old-enough-to-wear-this-graph-paper-shirt’ innocence.
www.facebook.com/timknightpoetry
1.1k · Feb 2014
Waterstones Recommendation
Tim Knight Feb 2014
You're a hardback book:
the coffee table photography type that
sits awaiting the agreeable eyes
of someone who likes what is inside.

Can I fall through into your black and white world
and stay there warm until the history books
catch up with me?

Because if I don't I fear I'll forget your face
and if you're ever on a shelf, with a Waterstones
recommendation below, and I fail to notice you
how can I ever learn again?
from >>> coffeeshoppoems.com
1.1k · Oct 2013
MAPS & MANUSCRIPTS
Tim Knight Oct 2013
maps don't exist for
the hardest routes,
instead only for those green diamond
lines playing over manuscript flat paper,
long like flutes extending out over and up
mountain ridges, down across narrow
beaches leading to fisherman rooftops
taking hits from the ocean in front.

We must make our own way lost,
ending up somewhere ill and icy,
dressed up in the frost in nothing but socks, unwashed
from the running, screaming grace from the
windowsills;
it's a place most won't meet, won't want to meet,
but will nevertheless greet with wide open, French patio door
arms.
coffeeshoppoems.com
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1.1k · Dec 2012
IT'S RAINING AGAIN, AGAIN
Tim Knight Dec 2012
Here comes the rain
the weatherman said would come,
and arrived just like a train.
No wait at a platform
or delay for a death,
just precipitation
and a whole lot of wet.
Wet windows and wet grasses,
moist tables left from the summers,
plant pots turned bowls,
to catch the water that floods and falls.
Here comes the rain again,
that the weatherman said would come.
1.1k · May 2013
RICH GIRL POEM
Tim Knight May 2013
Like a magician,
my suspicions were correct:
you’re an Esmeralda and very rich.

How could I tell, well:
            your stitches are sewn by money,
            the hair you possess falls as if honey,
            your tall cappuccino, three-extra-shots, is mixed with cinnamon,
            don’t get me wrong, you look lovely, but please floss,
            homemade bread is not attractive when lodged in pink, smoker’s gums,
            does your Father know you smoke
            or is choking fun?
            Cancer cannot be undone like your lower than normal blouse,
            so button up and stop with the arousing, ‘cos
            everyone here is doing work not listening
            to your fabulous conversation about Billy and Meg,
            cosy in the thought of love, playground love.

Like a magician,
my suspicions were correct:
you’re an Esmeralda and very rich.
TWITTER >> @coffeeshoppoems
1.0k · Jan 2013
YOU LOST A BABY
Tim Knight Jan 2013
“There’s a strange stalker in my chest, walking fast, unable to rest.”

And how you know it,
feel it every day,
sleep with its weight
as your comfort and dismay.
A blanket of shame to wrap yourself in;
another way to get warm,
another game to play.
Sleep alone and sleep thin
thoughts, weave them into dreams
until you feel distraught.
You
killed
a child
you
didn’t
want,
moved away back to Vermont.
Tim Knight Feb 2014
Spring upon the one that least expects it
because that pounce might start a reaction
not known in this lifetime, let alone in those books,
science papers, and coffee-table-I'll-read-it-later
catalogues. Those outlets, paper thin and tidy,
rely
on
fact.

Without fiction, and it's faux-character diction,
minds wouldn't wander, instead they'd be stuck to
statistics, tables, and those graphs awkwardly labelled.

Without fiction, we'd be thrown out of the poet-halls and reading clubs
with NOTICE OF EVICTION printed notes around our neck,
when all we had done was read what we thought.

Without fiction, there would be a fraction of me and you and us and those
missing, lost to somewhere not known here or mapped correctly, hidden underneath
the dirt, frozen water, the crust and snow.

Without fiction, we'd all be alone. Because that figment narrative
can either hide us when hunted or surprise us when confronted
with the one we wish to be with.
Visit coffeeshoppoems.com for more poetry.
1.0k · Sep 2013
UP, OVER & AROUND
Tim Knight Sep 2013
Look up,
they'll be fights going on
in the deepest hours of the night,
all behind pretty-born neon lights.

Look over,
she'll be mid argument with him
using uncouth words that appear blunt,
all behind a red brick front.

Peak 'round,
he'll be throwing clothes into suitcases
clearing out the wardrobe, not leaving traces,
all behind walls of places

you know.
WWW.COFFEESHOPPOEMS.COM
1.0k · Apr 2013
A LIST
Tim Knight Apr 2013
Time called,
it wants its watch back.

So too did love,
it wants its fake relationship back.

Literature left a message for you,
the book you stole should be returned.

Oh! You’ve just missed music,
it said that album you murdered is pressing charges.

Time called again,
just to make sure you got the message.

Check the machine,
there’s one from Platform Eight.
Bonfire night 2011 just hung-up,
it wants you to know never to return.

An email just came through,
from that film we knew every line too.

What was that,
you use people?

Oh! Politeness dropped by,
he said he’d like to slam every door he ever opened for you
back into your face.

Wait a second,
I’ll put him through-
it’s time, he wants to speak to you.
from > facebook.com/timknightpoetry
1.0k · Dec 2013
24 HOURS
Tim Knight Dec 2013
24 hours a day for the rest of our time together,
we'll walk with glutton in our shoes
walking with weight on our backs
covering distances only known in novels.

They'll get us you know,
those men selling cigarettes out of
office blocks, down that block there-
it's 62nd street and they never clock off.

What windows see aren't what we see.
Windows hear and feel and
we see and never heal;
we hold wounds like flowers bought
in hospital foyers, late to see a relative.

Buy ones and get some free:
it's a ploy so we spend that little bit more
than we need to.
from COFFEESHOPPOEMS.COM. Submit your poetry now for a chance to be published online.
Tim Knight Jul 2013
Fog over fields
that sits steady over the grass,
the blades are perspiring
whilst Ossett over the farms
sits lonesome with its spire.

Cut through the avenue of oak
with the windows down
and let the breeze run in and walk around;
altitude ears that are placed firmly on the ground
despite bursting into new forms
of sound waves, a concerning
amount of damage caused by
just the wind through the windows wide.

We’re off the hospital
to watch another relative die.
for more >> coffeeshoppoems.com
1.0k · Jul 2013
BUSINESS TAKES DAYS
Tim Knight Jul 2013
it's a misgiving feeling the thought of you leaving*

An airport terminal stretch of time
between the metaphor in my head
and the rhyme of your feet
stepping quietly on up ahead.

You said you'd be back within weeks,
business takes days, it's a climb
to the highest peak, you said
whilst walking through the gates.

It's a misgiving feeling
the sight of you leaving
you bag in tow down terminal's row
passport control, doors out,
disappearing
from the poetry blog >>>>>>>>>> coffeeshoppoems.com
Tim Knight Aug 2013
For Clemmie.

Long sand roads lead
to excitements with buckets and worn spades
crafting barriers to keep the sea away.

With baskets and cotton swimwear
we’d look into the eyes of each other,
lie next to each other,
be with one another.


For men will never drop the need to protect,
nest in the trees and wait for the seas:
the seas that’ll sweep up and rise in your lifetime and,
when they begin, no sewn sort branches will
save you from the swell.

Picnics made from grocery store vegetables,
ripened peppers flown in from
the greater somewhere.


Take to the skies, you’ll ask those in the know,
but they’re out of ideas before an answer materialises and is known and
snow won’t fall no more, just ice for our sidewalk commutes,
lovely and unfilled;
it’ll take a large span of time for a man to build a sand barrier worthy of note and fame.

*You take me back 63 years
every time I look at you.
From CoffeeShopPoems.com
Tim Knight Mar 2013
Last night I danced like my dad
with a girl who resembled a dictionary definition
I read not long back-
charming.

Graceful eyes that could
stop traffic with a blink,
and engaging lips that
would smile to sooth the pain of
the midday, gotta-get-back-home-now,
commuters whom step
on pedals with haste.

I lied. My dad can’t dance, so last
night I made a fool of myself
in front of a girl who resembled
a dictionary definition I read not
long back.
Twitter > @coffeeshoppoems
1.0k · Dec 2012
NOUGHTS & EX'S
Tim Knight Dec 2012
Time called,
it wants its watch back.
So too did love,
it wants its fake relationship back.
Literature left a message for you,
the book you stole should be returned.
Oh! You’ve just missed music,
it said that album you murdered is pressing charges.
Time called again,
just to make sure you got the message.
Check the machine,
there’s one from Platform Eight.
Bonfire night 2011 just hung-up,
it wants you to know never to return.
An email just came through,
from that film we knew every line too.
What was that,
you use people?
Oh! Politeness dropped by,
he said he’d like to slam every door he ever opened for you
back into your face.
Wait a second,
I’ll put him through-
it’s time, he wants to speak to you-
Visit www.coffeeshoppoems.com/ for more poetry!
Tim Knight Mar 2016
A fortnight ago an Algerian masseuse anointed each note of my joints,
spread thumbed cursive over my shoulders and
back around to my chest;
she spelt out how I'd be shivering now knowing you were leaving.
And last week you led me to an acupuncturist where he said,
Rob Frost had quit his job on point duty to become a receptionist instead.
I knew it was ******* by the way you barked in the background.
I knew it was wrong from the rumble through the stud wall,
sound of timpani, of gusto's drawl ringing in my ears:
the resonance of windfall if saved 'in the best ISA for years!'
This has been the best February since records began
and I thank you for being a friend.
from coffeeshoppoems.com
1.0k · Apr 2013
THE D338, FRANCE
Tim Knight Apr 2013
Tarmac blood in
a ribbon vein,
running on top
of a French landscape,
sunshine and no rain;
a scar I like to call the D338.
Sunflower crowds that
move together,
follow the Sun as if
loose feathers in the wind.


Doorway women squint
into the sky,
their aprons tied tight
to their waist side pockets,
deep with recipes scribbled on paper
and the keys to their acre
behind the family's tin pan roof.


Settle your back back into your seat,
strap in to keep in line your broken spine,
keep concrete eyes on the foundation skyline;
for this is the road that sits upon an alter, the holy shrine of France.
from coffeeshoppoems.com
Tim Knight May 2013
Welcome to the new age you said with a smile.

Lost lovers under street corner covers
will always learn not to kiss in the rain,
as whatever passion passes between their lips
will not discourage the reign of the precipitation’s pain.

You ran back off into the crowded pile.

Forgotten friends left at loose bar ends
will always learn not to drink alone,
as now they are mislaid and missing,
unknown in a city filled with others far from homes.

Through pint glasses and the dancing masses.

Back alley admirers lurk in amidst forlorn fires;
wavering flicks of flame still just about standing,
as they’re waiting to be tamed and taken home
to another bedroom masquerade, with someone they barely know.

I did not see you face again.
submit your poems to CoffeeShopPoems
998 · Apr 2013
ENDLESS CHICAGO
Tim Knight Apr 2013
It’s a forever New York out there,
with high rise chimney tops
and siren's scare
that wakes the birds from their sleep.

It’s a endless Chicago beyond the roofs,
bitter and fierce;
wrap up warm let not
the ice penetrate and pierce.

It’s a waiting Washington way over there,
where the ***** tubes of the
Potomac, Anacostia meet and kiss.

It’s my land where every day
is a day out.
No one holding you back
telling you that you can’t walk about.
coffeeshoppoems.com
facebook.com/timknightpoetry
998 · Feb 2013
STREET-ALLEY DECEMBER
Tim Knight Feb 2013
“I wish that I could see the light,
before you put the blinds down
on the edge of night”

She packed an overnight bag
for her next day flight
back home to somewhere
where climate exists,
another girl from the Tennessee state, kissed.

Appalachian Mountain eyes
with summit mist
smokers eyes,
deep brown pupils
drowning among the whites of her eyes:

*it’s the eyes that I remember, as well as our last encounter in street-alley December.
www.facebook.com/timknightpoetry
@coffeeshoppoems
Tim Knight Feb 2013
You don't know what you want
nor know what you'll become;
but in the years that'll drum on
you won't know what you'll have
before it's upped and gone.

Let palms and backs of hands
burn with pain, the wound of the twine.
Keep your kite from landing within the lambs,
break you back, but not your spine.

For your ambition is an anchor
in the deepest of seas;
it'll reel on down through the
breeze, past the knees,
collecting and acclimatising,
running towards your needs.

But only are they realised
when you're down on your luck
struggling to breathe.
No longer are you dynamic and living,
but a soul sat down
quietly remembering.

So keep your kite close
to your heart
and that anchor in the sea,
for no one knows what you'll become,
nor where you'll end up and leave.
facebook.com/timknightpoetry for more free poetry to your feed.
990 · Jul 2013
SITS BETWEEN THE WALL
Tim Knight Jul 2013
She carries keys in her hand
though she dropped her car off
underground and across land
over an hour ago,
it’s a status symbol,
as is her tight dress
and higher heels than the rest,
her handbag too is money defined
lined with faux fur she thinks is real
with a teal exterior that, well,
is the cheapest colour on her person.

She sits in between the
no-purpose-at-all-walls,
studded and wrong and placed
at angles in the room that
throw light from shade to gloom.
a poem
-
coffeeshoppoems.com
Tim Knight Aug 2013
Song For A Sweetheart
again being played to the one
without a counterpart,
unholy chasms forming in the shapes
of stomachs and lungs and
a gap for where the heart should be,
taken like every lost jigsaw piece
to the hand of a child, one not
yet realising they’ll have to be with someone
in the 20 years or so.
To wait would be to trust the timetable
that is pinned to every figment board
in this town,
printed in red and finished with crosses
on the bottom, shame they’re written by
the hand of her, for her sweetheart counterpart, not for this boy
from somewhere people only pass through,
not care about.
I’m with you Clayton West, a ring road
to the main show out of town.
coffeeshoppoems.com (poetry blog)
Tim Knight Feb 2013
Dear warmth,

May you rub your back against my shoulder
‘til the windows mist with condensation,
and we fall back into youth, hiding
away from the older.

May your temperature, rising to the point
of red cheek puncture, provide an oasis
under the sand of duvet’s cover.

May your hair whip around like every
flame I’ve ever seen, no agenda or judgement,
just sheer ecstasy and  excitement.

May you conjure up that lone shower feeling,
that one where for a brief slot in time everything
you know and have become floats away through
that extractor fan, out into the air- climbing higher.

May you provide that gasp of heat that
hits the cook in the face, after opening the oven’s
gate in hunger and haste.

May you be that holiday sun I always seek.

May you be the metal womb of  a car when
outside in the myriad hospital world
where it’s cold.

May you be humorous and humid and
totally lovely to be with.

May you be a heated conversation and argument
and disagreement, that torment of words
I need to hear.

May you be my laugh that bubbles up
from the volcano underneath.

May you be the heat caused by key
and lock, that one that stops
others from coming in and making
for ruin.

May you be that first sip of  ‘the
most civilised thing in the world’, as
Hemmingway put it, and let it ignite
a dance below.

May you not judge the mixture
of my grape and grain, and my love
for walking in the rain and my waiting for
ex-girlfriends every time they call.

May you always let me bed down
in that manger in the snug, though
Steve doesn’t know I borrowed his
blanket rug.

May you forever toast that bread
at midnight, just before bed.

Yours faithfully,
The Cold.
from www.coffeeshoppoems.com > ALWAYS LOOKING FOR SUBMISSIONS
972 · Jun 2013
THROUGH-A-GLASS WAKEFIELD
Tim Knight Jun 2013
That’s Wakefield out the window,
kept between four corner walls
landing flat and rising tall,
this is how it walks and that’s the way it goes
and its red brick timber lined walls
are pieced back together
with a forever piece of wire tether.

That same wire would have led down
back streets and alleyways,
turning into a hardened mess of grey lined,
grey hound steel,
that ran around as tracks for the trams,
the Chantry Chapel couple
waiting patiently with their pram
to cross the street,
to cross the bridge,
to get back home-
put the milk in the fridge.

I can hear you cry, Wakefield
your calls are cast so near.
I can hear you cry Wakefield,
your fear distilled within the hum of the traffic outside,
spilled onto the road deaf and dead,
caught within the grooves of another tyre's tread.
Written about Wakefield, a city in Yorkshire.
from coffeeshoppoems.com
Tim Knight Oct 2013
Every word's a path,
each sentence a tree
and all attached to a stump of a woman
thin at the base then growing in circles,
until age is defined by height,
her illness by weight.

How can the wood of trench walls
look so lucid, perspex branches
contorting into string in the wind,
knotting air into eddies keeping them
floating right there?
from the poetry website, coffeeshoppoems.com
Tim Knight Jun 2013
And we showered in prison sized cells,
white tiled and PVC clad,
the B&Q; recommends it!-
hells.

And we died in those showers
that were prison sized cells,
white tiled and PVC clad,
doors-are-broken-again-
hells.

And we were saved by the
eat again yellow doors,
peering through blind black windows
into the clear streets at dawn.

And they yelled with a siren mouth
***** blue profanity and
you left your mark with a ****** white tee,
wet with the water that
hurtled down from the
shower head, unclean and *****.
facebook.com/coffeeshoppoems

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959 · Jun 2013
MAIL TRAIN BITCH
Tim Knight Jun 2013
your thoughts are being passed along
at mail train speeds,
no pauses or restraints
no clauses or complaints,
all with a face that would make tear gas cry.
This is a present to you,
it's everything I want to say:

*stop wanting every moment to be music video magic
because it’s something you'll never achieve,
what you say isn’t MTV,
so go head-
disagree.
coffeeshoppoems.com
957 · Feb 2013
CLOSE CONTACT ENEMY
Tim Knight Feb 2013
She denied the note
with a wave of her hand,
a harsh slice of the independent woman,
right there next to the bookshop stand.

I could tell, you could tell,
the whole ******* shop could tell
that this couple was very much in love.
It was the constant kisses on cheeks and
that rubbing of the palms with thumbs,
that gave their game away.

Tucked beneath wet raincoat pit,
a brochure protruded and hit
every close contact enemy.
It was a bible of new houses;
psalms of yet-to-be-wet-feet-on-new-lino-floors,
prayers of neutral-coloured-baby-room walls,
proverbs of shall-we-frame-this-poster-or-just-BluTac-it-up-and-hope-for-the-­best?.

They left the shop back into the rain
to the sound of several sighs,
thank goodness for the gray
dangerous clouds of the sky.
From www.coffeeshoppoems.com
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