"nicking" poems
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the ***** sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining **** among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a *****
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no ***** to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
6.6k
What do you do at 3am when you're tired and bored and its raining?
Maybe this is punishment.
For eating those grapes before you paid for them in Sainsburys.
Or that time you forgot who Buzz Aldron was, or when you took pleasure at beating a five year old at Cluedo.
She started crying, and even then, you still
would not relinquish your title.
Maybe its for that time
You were accidentally racist to the chinese guy taking your order.
Or when you forgot to buy your mum a birthday card, or when you made fun of your best friend for not being taller.
Or when you said, 'Maybe
selective breeding in humans,
Is not such a bad thing after all.'
Yes, Its definitely punishment for that.
But maybe its for all the litter you've dropped, inadvertently or on purpose.
Or for last week when you accidentally kicked the cat, or for stealing those library books,
For swearing at kids
and blaspheming at the dinner table,
Christ!
Maybe its for nicking your brothers chips, even when you're not really that hungry.
For halfhearted apologies handed out like office stationary, for scoffing at most modern art.
For not revising when you
Really, really should
...But telling your parents you are.
But even with all of this, isn't the punishment, just a little bit too harsh?
Well now you are sarcastic, and bitter and pessimistic at least 90% of the time.
And you do hide the fact that you quite like country music, and that you have a blanket with sleeves (and you genuinely use it) and that you're really rather patriotic at heart.
And you didn't say all that stuff when you should have.
And you said all that other stuff you didn't mean
And you spend far too much of your time
Invested in impressing the people you're never going to see again.
And you realize all of this... at three o'clock in the morning, alone but for the fading of the rain.
And you swear to yourself, with all the fervour of a tired insomniac. That tomorrow.
There. Will. Be. Change.
But in the cold, harsh light of nine o'clock the same day. Six hours after you fell asleep. You resign yourself to the fact that last nights punishments can all be absolved, by a nice warm cup of tea.
And despite what you say
at 3am when you're tired and bored,
listening to the sound of the rain.
You will always be a pessimistic idiot, with delusions of grandeur.
That watches too much American TV.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
This hand which moves and rides some voice is not mine.
I have given it over to you, young boy.
This is what makes it fly so, traveling out,
tripping along in dance of shape and sound.
I acknowledge your presence in this fashion.
You tell me by messages,
beaming out the back of your head,
you are the very boy who has waited an eternity
at some upper railing.
You sit and peer through the spaces,
down the twisted stair.
Your hands, they grip the vertical rail.
Silent. Silent. Waiting you.
Let this right hand of mine be your secret voice.
Let this scrawl and scratch be your gravelly tongue—
ick-nicking, ga-chooing, click and stutter.
What language may I shape for our sake?
With you, may I follow, setting trail markers just so.
Will others come mistaking their ways for yours?
My hand is opening and opens wide.
I remember you. I am returning.
Let it be.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
you cannot finish need.
it fiends in wretched globes of dwarf
swelling to tremendous steam
a Bacchanal of vineyard borscht
a moonlit morsel of demolished dreams...
we serve at the pleasure of the absurd
gilding shadows with clay confetti
and the nictitating membranes of blue crocodiles.
and blank verse.
felling the Yggdrasil, by all means; you maraud the larder
in the night kitchen; nicking blackbird-pies and pinky-russet salamanders
[ the loose farthing ] and the hard liquor... all gone now
your potato sack, rakishly slung from the shoulders of an Atlas, entitled ' Promised Land; betrayed '.
a new map shrugging off old kings from dead valleys
revealing the hour of your worthless estate,
in-lieu of the boundaries of your lost holdings. unhappily -
you inherit the unripe peach
in a hound's mouth.
you slouch rough, slowly
to your beast
of a couch:
there, to remain unholy and due South.
there, to remain unknowing
by all account.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
Take me back to when top hats were like business suits
When the white moths had become black with filth
When the Thames was brown like the rotted teeth of beggars
And not just because of the mud
When the Irish and the Slavic were exotic
When London was Birmingham
When Birmingham was Liverpool
When Liverpool was a country village
When there were millions
And yet they were still so innocently oblivious
Take me to the city clothed in black
For there was always a funeral somewhere
London
The noisy factories
And crowded slums
The fear that the cold brings
The pain that disease brings
The real London
The honest London
The dark, deadly London of my nightmares
Every narrow, dimly-lit alleyway dripping with **** and blood
Full of criminals and drunks
Ominous dark brown bricks
The suffocating stink that follows you wherever you go
Cursing, begging
Lifting, cuffing, gaffing, looting, nicking, pinching, swiping, thieving, pilfering, pillaging
Hundreds of words for stealing
Where the poor are painfully poor
Where every woman that smiles at you is a **********
Corpses lying in the streets
Next to gas lamps
The only beacons of light
People packed into bedrooms like chickens
Sleeping on the string
Highly disturbing
But it's best not to interfere
For someone else will deal with it
Industry and decency will save us all
There is no trace of that now
Except the noble stone buildings
Commissioned by the corrupt
This is my fear and obsession
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
Our thoughts of time travel
burnt-up when Junior
sang The Blues.
Foreign creature.
***** voodoo muppet.
His spaniel’s moan,
a call to mud,
digging deep like
“woo-woo-woo”
Smacking the past in the chin,
he dipped a laden lead melon
in a barrel of black molasses.
A slow lowering,
tender sinew slackened.
Unclawed-
the orb traversed his finger tips
nicking his nails on the way earthward.
The black drink parts then
floods back where it once was,
coating the cold round load
as it sank down below
the Mason-Dixon line.
Junior gurgled in slow-mo
dipped his Gibson
and stirred the stew,
made the black brew dribble over
the barrel’s shoulders
and puddle in the thick sticky
corners and cracks of
the Juke’s oak planks.
He fished it out then
-bladaplowplow-
-WHAP!!-
split that melon in half,
no knife, they used the trap,
then Junior took his break
to take a nap
in Baton Rouge.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC
the management
at Hello Poetry
need to be mindful
of grand larceny
those who involve themselves
with this impropriety
would be scooted off
other writing sites
very promptly
theft is theft
and stealing
is a federal crime
they the perpetrators
bear a shingle
of low down slime
taking other's
copyrighted pieces
always their appalling
paradigm
yet these persons
aren't bought to book
they have a free rein
in employing the purloining hook
plagiarists so bereft
of a writing capacity
nicking your works and mine
with reprehensible audacity
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 9:05 PM UTC
Words wither in the air
as silence slithers between us.
The waves wash over where we sat
as rigid rocks cut water raw.
A seagulls silhouette splayed across the sky
carries a creature so soon to be crushed.
A hermit hiding in his home
pops up out of his puddle,
fleeing back when a feather flutters down
nearly nicking his new shell.
The day grows dark and dim
as rain runs down the rustling leaves.
Light house lights litter the night
showing sheltered shadows.
A bush bows to the blustering breeze,
as the smell of the salty sea settles.
While choppy waters churn violently
when wind whips around us.
Droplets tip toeing across the tide
visibly vibrant than vanishing.
The boats buckle under the beatings
as docks drown diving under desolate waters.
We walk away wincing,
at the last glance at the grey grizzly night.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
The thrill of it
nicking a Twix
from the corner shop,
a lunchbreak one day
in the mid-nineties
looking inconspicuous
between the chocolate
and packs
of smoky bacon crisps.
Sam pilfered
a Snickers, a Wispa,
we dashed outside,
ran back to school,
couldn’t believe it,
looking at our stolen goodies,
not a splash of guilt
alive in our minds.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
In the ageless place where wings greeted the realms of the sky.
A single rose did blossom, its thorns of clarity transparently
Unseen, to hide the deed that would be beauties hidden snare.
Fallen a single item of purity fell upon this petalled beauty and
From white It was consumed, until it flamed black Till ash
Nourished the rose and petals turned starless black.
She happened on this rose of no thorn, nicking her index it bled
But a drop, and what wasn't was now shown a thorn of red,
As if blood had filled its edges, and with that one knick a petal
Of black did open, no longer closed the door now open.
As upon an exposed moment this petal permeates the purity
Of Innocence, inviting those enticed to obscurity of beauty
hidden is the pollen that infiltrates the air seeding its Influence
upon others self. As all are drawn to the rose that drinks.
Each thorn did consume, all met innocence and each petal now
Turned from purity to onyx of corruption. Where the shades of
White confronted with desires of a thought never felt.
Ever petal had opened, spawned the beast that had slept, but
Now woken as pollen of darkness inhaled by light. Those perfect
features now jagged upon silk torn, blood was not spilt on thorns
But on the white cobbled streets, screams of insanity reeked.
A single rose blossoming beauty of flawed conscience's had
Given birth to unclean emotions, thoughts that took control.
All were nearly tainted only a few were still pure of heart, this
Place of fallen feathers into the clouded thoughts.
There was a rose that blossomed in Calluna, its beauty seduced
Those of purity of heart and seeded a petal that was like a razor
Jagged, upon a soul cutting it apart. With tainted beauty till only the
shards of edges sharp breathed upon a heart. now all was black
Where once there was only shades of white that have fallen apart.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
my daughter wants a lift from work
she pays me with frangipanes and pasties
and tubes of sour cream Pringles
(half eaten)
my wife sleeps on the sofa
annoyed
I woke her to say I'm nicking her car
'cause the air con works
(mine doesn't)
dad is in the capable hands of the
undertaker
who are looking after him in the meantime
while I get documents and certificates
to say he died
but none say I was there
none say how much I hurt INSIDE
or how hard it is to pick up the keys
and give my own daughter
a lift home
(from round the corner)
as though it were any other day
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 5:06 AM UTC
Pools of aquamarine sink in the depths of golden quartz
as a figment of a feeling --
too foreign to be named,
yet
too familiar to be told --
grasps into their cores
as a their hands intertwine
with sudden daunting urgency.
Long forgotten are the piercing words
that become nothing but murmurs
in the cool and crisp air that fails to
shimmer and soothe the embers
between his and her beings.
By which the ardent winds push them,
so does the tip of his --- no, hers
she laid claim on this many moons ago ---
her knife, nicking a far edge in their chamber,
hilt bobbing in rhythm with nimble fingers.
Patience and longing, fever and urgency,
all colliding as desire feeds on hope.
The closer they sink,
an anchor beneath the water,
where they find each other
in a movement of souls
through a spirited exchange of breaths.
It begins within them,
a threshold
of a furnace
that burns in
war and frost.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 10:47 AM UTC
i. therapy
please push this toy car.
it is going to the beach.
in this activity, one makes a flower
from the parts
of a hand. it is obvious:
people have time.
if I sob, it is so you know
to turn your head.
ii. daydream
if art, be sure to place the couple
carefully
on the donkey
have them pass
a sunned whale
neither see.
iii. I can’t make myself cry without you
I give instruction, I say sad things, I put my ear
to a belly of disparate
pregnancies.
iv. a therapeutic image of your likeness
( foreign as
one’s wonderment
in coming across
types
of mitochondrial disorders
or the oral
beauty
of reading ahead
nicking oneself
on chevrotain )
v. terminology
mouse
inoculates
deer
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
I Love You.
I still do.
I remember the feeling of love
like a blanket.
Wrapped warm round my heart,
shielding it from the
frigid cold of anxiety,
keeping me sane from the
wallows of depression.
Waking up to you,
sun caressing your face.
When your eyes fluttered open
they shimmered gold
the prize of kings
yet in reach
of my trepid hands,
confident in the glow of your love.
As my towers crumbled down,
castles torn by the
catapults of panic.
Swinging strong,
crashing into my masks,
cracking walls of my heart,
you could not save me.
I never needed a hero.
Just a healing song,
wrapping wounds
after war torn battlefields
lilies growing hope in the wreckage.
Yet your heartstring clung to mine,
crimson as my blood.
Tugged to tightly,
struggling to hold me
as you held yourself.
Shadows nicking your heals,
as they crawled up my body to reach yours.
Some sacrifices are not worth making.
Some people must be left to the aftermath.
Some hearts cannot be salvaged from shadow.
You couldn’t bare the weight of me forever.
So you let go,
You saved yourself.
For that,
I am thankful.
I could never stand to see you drown
in my ocean.
Not when you are still attempting to
tread through yours.
But your lighthouse,
still a sight for my eyes.
I believe in the light,
I love your light,
I struggle to the surface of
the pitching waves.
Crashing on my face,
salt sticking to red flash eyes,
strangling my throat.
I crawl to the top just to
catch a glimpse of you.
Wishing for the days
where you would
sail out on your lifeboat
and hold me in the storm.
Just making sure i could still swim.
Just to see if I was okay.
To answer your question.
It is still hard to breathe underwater.
I swim through waves
steadfast, as they churn
mockingly. They can see my weakness.
But I love you,
that is enough.
I will keep paddling,
listening to my heart,
the beat of my hands and feet.
Slashing through the violet tides,
I will reach shore.
You will never have to sacrifice yourself
again.
I will reach the shore.
I will reach for you.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 3:22 AM UTC
Susie peels the potatoes
Mrs Gripe had told her to do
hands in cold water
back aching
the cook moaning
in the background
Polly by the other sink
washing pans
Susie wants it
to be night-time again
wants to be able
to put her hands round
Polly's waist again
to keep out the cold
and to smell Polly's back
as she had the night
before it was so cold
Polly didn't seem to mind
her hugging her
and secretly kissed her arm
while she slept
lips to her nightgown
covered arm
getting warm
snuggling there
feeling sensual
being close
to the other maid
in the attic bed
are you going to be all day
peeling those spuds
Gripe says
need them for dinner
wake up girl
Susie turns and stares
yes Mrs Gripe
she says
and peels faster
with the knife
avoiding nicking her thumb
as she nearly did just now
she glances over
to where Polly is working
mind elsewhere
thoughts on George no doubt
wanting him back here
not on that hospital far away
wish she wanted me
in the bed as she does him
Susie muses
wish she did to me
what she did to him
wish she kissed me
as she kissed him
Susie thinks
and when you've
done there girl
go fetch her Ladyship's tray
from breakfast
and don't slump so
and all Susie says
is sorry Mrs Gripe I will go.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
funny how a simple act of eating raspberries (as opposed to blowing them!) can bring back some profound childhood memories! memories which involved nearly burning the house down whilst the rest of my family slept! fair enough, i was only 6-7 years old, and there was no malicious intent to wipe out the other 6. but it all happened because of an opened tin of raspberries i'd espied whilst peaking into the fridge, they were the sole possession of my father. i woke up at about 6am next morning thinking of nothing else, so i crept downstairs, quiet as a mouse, and into the kitchen, thinking surely he wouldn't miss one or two? they were nectar from the gods! i couldn't control myself..i disposed of the empty tin in the bin. i started to explore the kitchen cupboards, and i noticed the one under the sink was full off newspapers for the fire, i also saw a box of safety matches (ironic really, considering the consequences!) so i thought i'd play a game of blow the fire out. i struck a match, and it lit up like a sparkler, and put the flame to the paper, quickly blowing it out, feeling clever, i lit another match, this time allowing the flaming newspaper to get bigger. unfortunately, i huffed, and i puffed (not disimilar to a big bad wolf!) this time no luck. i ran upstairs terrified, knowing that i was in deep poo poo, but ran into my elder brothers room, shaking saying "the house is on fire!" he grunted at me, so i repeated it, he grunted again, then it must of sunk in, as he sat bolt upright, ran into my parents room, and everyone got out of the house. fire engines, ambulances, and the police turned up, plus all the neighbours were there. luckily only the kitchen was burn't out! a big scary policeman was now asking questions, which led him to me, and in floods of tears, i confessed i'd been playing with matches (wondering if i would be sent to prison, or hanged, if not by the police, by my parents, but all i got was a severe telling off. my actual crime of nicking raspberries remained undiscovered. and on the plus side, my mother had had a real problem with ants trying to get into the kitchen, the fire at least had stopped that. moral of the tale is, pinch raspberries, but don't play with fire! is that a moral? well who knows, but the irony is, i was so scared i blew a few, should of put a match to them instead...! 😏🦋🔥
Jul 27, 2020
Jul 27, 2020 at 5:46 PM UTC
Once again I feel like I’m not enough
Once again I feel the pillars of my identity being shaken like trees
Will their roots hold them firm and steady in the soil?
Or will they topple with a crash onto the unforgiving ground,
Leaving my carefully built structures to crumble into ruins?
Thoughts swirl around in my head like blades,
Their sharp edges dangerously close to nicking vital arteries that keep me alive.
But somehow I always survive.
Meanwhile, the world continues spinning,
Oblivious.
I try to ****** the blades out of the air as quickly as possible,
But each one rises again as soon as my back is turned,
An army of undead soldiers hell-bent on consuming my mind.
Still, I remind myself that this apocalypse will not be the end of me.
Though natural and unnatural disasters may shake my cities,
Through fires, floods, and famines,
I will continue.
When my foundations are all that is left standing,
I will build up from the bedrock until I can see new horizons from my tallest tower.
I may watch the blood-red sun set on yesterday,
But I will see it rise again far above these ashes.
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
that man is a underhanded thief
a thief he is
nicking off with stuff
that wasn't his
when I catch up with him
he'll get a piece of my mind
which wont be of a nice kind
he thought he'd get away
with touting my stuff as his own
but he must realize
that my stuff is mine and mine alone
he'll get a reprimand from me
for skiving off with stuff that belongs to me
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
twill be a sensational
evolution
when he makes his new year's
resolution
he'll be giving up all types of
duplication
that shall no longer be his
vocation
for many a long day
he's been passing off others works
as his own clay
to falsely claim
that they were all
of his personal tray
yet there is much
suspicion
as to whether he'll show any
contrition
for nicking off with poems not of his own
volition
he's a fellow mired in a questionable
position
with but a few days
till the new year
will be cease stealing
our pieces of gear
twill be so good to see him
changing his hallmark pilfering
to an original kind
of poetic offering
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
What light doth yonder window break?
It panes me; to stay and wait
Madness, Madness. Cold and Cruel
Leaving us all Jesters and Fools.
Insanity and Vanity
Our tools of trade.
Do you see what lovely little scars they make?
Perplexing and Vexing
A scattered picture makes.
For who can tell what is real, and what is fake.
Splattered and Slathered
The Mind unveils
Leaving all the ponder it's tales.
Who can tell truth from lie?
Who decides whether they live or die?
Judge, Jury, and Executioner alike
Have all seemingly gone on strike.
The Mind, a kaleidoscope of lies
Nicking and Picking
Fixating and Hating
Obsessing and Testing
Creating and Saving
Destroying, Deploying
Stop.
What Truth is lying within a lie?
That so encaptures and invests our Mind?
What is the difference between truth, fib, and lie?
Perhaps Songbird, Raven, and Vulture will suffice.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
Dazzling lights
Dizzying nights
Locking no tips
Nicking cold lips
Smile, city slicker
Smile
Dazzling nights
Dizzying lights
Locking no lips
Nicking cold tips
Smile, country roamer
Smile
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
Lost in the night's arms
Only the chill of the winter
reminds me
Vividly of memories
Nicking at my heart
Eventually it will stop
Right?
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC