Things

Things

things

She takes a cigarette from the elegant case

And inhales a bygone era and not just the taste,

The feather boa hanging over her bed,

Beckons Hollywood glamour into her head,

The faux fur jacket slung over one shoulder

Is the only thing around to hold her,

The individually hand-painted glass

Holds the liquid dreams of her past,

The fashionable boots on her tired feet

Help to make her feel a little more complete,

And her shiny new phone

Is her only link to an abandoned home.

(c) Words and images belong to the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission.

Rootless

Wallflowers see everything but are rarely seen…It doesn’t make them any less splendid or bright just because nobody notices them though. In the same way that firework that goes off too late still creates the same magic and beauty as the ones in the display, wallflowers do too.

Rootless

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I’m the tumbleweed

That blows through your village on Halloween,

I’m the firework that went off too late to be seen,

The magic that works behind the scenes,

The one that sells ice-creams in the intervals of your dreams.

I am the book nobody reads to the end,

I am the ‘not in need’ friend,

I am the anthem from someone else’s headphones,

The one you would have called on but didn’t think would be at home…

And I wasn’t but I was indoors on my own.

Nobody will notice but the sea,

When I blow away with the breeze

And take my notes back from the melody,

That nobody hears until I’ve gone –

A tuneless song.

Who was she?

That strange, quiet one?

(c) All words and images belong to the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission

Spy

Some things you just can’t talk about plainly. That’s the beauty of poetry. It’s the world’s most accomplished diplomat.

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Spy

Spy

Lie

Try

Die

Cry

It’s not that you didn’t know

That it was all about to go

Global

Show all

Not small

It snowballed

Hit a wall

One last call

Then

We

All

Fall.

What will it take to reveal those words?

Honest cloths polishing turds.

There was never any glamour

You never did clamour

For riches or bitches.

Were your stitches neat?

When you got beat?

Spy, lie, try, die, cry!

Bye.

(C) All words and images belong to the owner and may not be reproduced without permission.

A Day in the Night of

A dreamy surreal recollection of a blurred connection on an astral plane as night drifted into morning.

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A Day in the Night of…

She muttered some clutter into his dreams

And tiptoed amongst eggshells split at the seams,

Empty and purged of their cargo

They knew how far to go

To make things new and right.

And he slept on through the light –

The dawn chorus his lullabies,

Seeing the world clearly through shut eyes,

Soul and spirit mischievous spies

Eager to see his journey unfold,

Desperate to hear what truths he’d be told.

He delighted in the golden respite,

While she rid herself of all that might

Hold her hostage.

Every last ounce of rottage:

The terrible lies

The sleepless nights

The flashbacks and knives

The untimely deaths

The self imposed punishments

The poison ingested

The rats that infested

The twice flooded cottage.

The half felt loves

And wholly ruinous catastrophes,

And she muttered as she stitched in the clutter at the seams,

Working away to mend broken dreams.

And he slept on through the light

And she became free.

(c) All words and images belong to the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission

Brazen Waves

My first offering – a poem I wrote some time ago about something that plays a hugely significant role in my life – the ocean. As a teenager, I always dreamed of living somewhere where I had the ocean right on my doorstep – one of my dreams that I eventually did make a reality.

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Brazen Waves

I love it when it’s stormy

And the sea vomits on the shore,

Touting all its treasures

Like a kleptomaniac whore:

A mermaid’s purse,

A gentleman’s shoe,

The crumbs of a ship

And splinters of the crew.

A life rinsed away,

A heartbreak on a wave,

An ocean so brazen,

One to brave and never save.

(c) All words and images belong to the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission

Getting Braver

So, I’ve just sent out the invites to my next Share Out Loud event which I am going to hold at my humble abode and feeling like I’m really gaining confidence in my writing. I’ve wondered for a long time whether to use this forum to share some of my poetry and I’ve decided to brave it and see. I think it can offer a different aspect to what sharing out loud can – a different audience, a different medium. As well as a writer I’m also a keen photographer and I think by publishing some of my poetry here I can also find a nice way to pair up some of the hundreds of images I have stashed away too. So, I’ll be sharing lots of my work here over the next few weeks. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Share and Share Alike

Aviary Photo_130551804147695193So, on Thursday it was my birthday and I celebrated with a share-out-loud picnic. It was one of my friends’ ideas. Or rather they had suggested that we have the picnic and that I entertain people with my poetry. That seemed a little too ‘me, me, me’ for my liking and so I altered the plan slightly so that others were invited to share something of their own – a poem, a story, a joke – anything, just so long as it could be ‘shared out loud.’ I’m so glad I did for as well as finding the confidence to share some of my own creations and getting some lovely support and appreciation there, I was also fascinated by what everyone else had to share, particularly those who had shared their own work. It seemed that there were more people in exactly my situation – people who wrote and wrote furiously and copiously … and then didn’t quite know what to do about it.

The gentle invitation to share something that ‘could be a piece of your own writing’ but didn’t have to be, seemed to allow people that freedom to do so and really, what was unearthed was an absolute treasure trove. Among the offerings one friend had even written some poems especially for the occasion and revealed that behind claims not to be much of a writer there lurked a humour, a warmth, an unmistakable style. Another friend offered a synopsis of not one but two plays she had written. There were poems that revealed the rough edges of smooth characters, that shouted loud the quiet whisperings of their soul and as the evening drew to a close, I was left wondering not what on earth had made me do it, as I had feared might be the case but what on earth had taken me so long. For my part I shared three poems – chosen at random and in the moment:

1) Flame – about how an ex lover can mellow into a calming presence as you both mature

2) Not the Messiah – an angry rant about someone with delusions of grandeur who clearly thinks they are

3) Mourning Wood – a surreal and satirical ditty about a man consumed with lust induced by funerals and the paraphernalia of grief

I feel that in those few hours on the beach with the backdrop of a stunning sunset and the embers of a burning Harvest Moon, we truly had created a circle of trust. I feel buoyed by the experience, keen to share more and to hear more and to read and discuss and fall in love with whatever people are kind enough to share of their own.

It was a privilege. The perfect birthday gift.

I have mooted the idea of a repeat performance some time in the not-too-distant future for interested parties – an idea that has been met with enthusiasm. At least part of my puzzle of when to share my work, with whom and how has been solved and I feel like this is just the beginning.