"muddily" poems
forgotten are
those bright
autumnal colours
of the freshly fallen
no longer able
to offer
a crisp rustling
with each step
a whisper that
invites child
and adult alike
to kick
and shuffle
playfully
ignoring the bite
of frost
unwelcomed
by noses
and fingertips
those downbeat leaves
lately of such
seasonal delight
have been rejected
by bough
and branch
drifting meekly
without protest
or wrenched
from arboreal familiarity
by gusting wind
or gloved hand
turned to mulch
by constant downpours
muddily trodden upon
without second thought
clinging to any
passing boot
trainer or shoe
only to be scraped
and scuffed
on pavement
or curb
stomped in a puddle
left behind
Nov 22, 2022
Nov 22, 2022 at 7:37 AM UTC
I saw the news of that night,
I saw the people cower in fright,
I felt their love fall to the ground,
I knew the fear would spread around,
Down in the place called Orlando
The outed, the loved, the brave,
The ones in closets, dark like a cave,
The lonely, the lovely,
The ones like dogs stomping muddily,
Down in dear old Orlando.
No one had expected what came next,
It was something like text,
You read from a book,
Now don't ever look,
Down in Orlando.
What was once a place,
A very special space,
Space for those different than him,
He thought they were a sin,
Now it's no more in Orlando.
All they wanted was love,
But their souls flew like a dove,
No more of their musical,
Wonderful, beautiful,
Lives in Orlando.
To all those,
Who rose,
To the next place,
I give you good grace.
I am sorry for all that's been done,
I know sometimes life hasn't been fun,
But you didn't deserve,
To be served,
The final, the last,
Place. I'm sad that you passed,
Into death.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 12:20 AM UTC
Magdalene leaves
the confession box
after making
her confession
but without waiting
for the absolution
from the priest
which she didn't think
he'd give anyway
as she was unrepentant
of wanting and loving Mary
and she'd said too much
and walking fast
down the side aisle
of the church
past the statue
of the ******
past people on their knees
in the pews
out the back doors
dipping two fingers
in the stoup
and out into the street
looking behind her
in case Father Joseph
was following her
out of the church
like some hound
after prey
asking her
what did you say?
but he isn't
and she walks along
the street
her mind muddily
her hands in her pockets
her eyes searching
all who pass her by
will he know
who she was
who had said
those things
in the confessional?
will he seek her out
back at school
on Monday
and ask her about Mary
and her odd
affection for the girl
and was this Mary like her
in her wants and desires?
what about her parents?
what if he tells them
about her wants and stuff?
no he can't
what is said
in confession
stays in confession
let the fecking priest
soak in it
live with it
she says to herself
walking past shoppers
past shop windows
she wants Mary
wants her body and soul
not just bits of her
she wants her all
wants her whole.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 2:32 AM UTC
The flag flailed flawlessly
then fell flaccidly
under the bushy
grey brow like clouds.
Restless winds
settled in
to a plain old boring
temperate temperament.
Then the dull day
gave way
to much ado
as the clouds grew
dark and heavy with
evaporated wetness.
The calming clouds
could not contain
their weighted frame
anymore.
Soft trickles
turned to
a thick downpour
moistening
my dry skin
till I was soaking.
Thin T
sticking
awkwardly
to me,
but the water felt good,
so, I sat and basked in
the rushing rain
that was falling.
Till, the earth beneath me
began sinking
muddily.
Then, I sloshed
my soaked self-home
sheepishly
spreading all the muddy
mess around me.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 9:38 AM UTC
The rumbling cat circles the chair,
wondering what wakes me
at this hour. A reassuring stroke
or two between lines,
and she puddles beside
in tail-wrapped satisfaction.
Heir to a hundred insignificant sufferings
which scurry and gnaw
at the underpinnings of slumber,
half-awake and fumbling for gratitude,
I choose enough small misery to write.
Don't scare up ambition to rhyme
or scan, or make myself look good,
or put lipstick on the false smile
of swinish apathy wallowing muddily.
Cold, clammy soil suits and soothes my mood.
There is a hunger howling
in hours dark with early morning
for a gentle scratch behind my ears,
a soft hand welcoming my nuzzle;
a nesting ground of warm worn cloth
smelling of home and family
where I can pad its perimeter,
curl into myself
and sleep.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
Days pass muddily, time is stuck.
Five more to go with the right luck.
At time and a half, hours tick;
The stroke of five does not come quick
Rush hour feels more like rush year;
Finally, your exit I near.
I dance up steps to the right floor,
A sweaty palmed knock on your door
The moment long overdue,
Is the heat before I kiss you.
The second between our lips meet,
That's the ****** I crave all week.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 11:12 PM UTC