Category Archives: Other

Jam Jars

Imagine if Death were a child,
A curious collector of things,
Of the fireflies flickering deep in our souls,
Kept in jam jars with polka dot trims.

Indexed, and ordered, and filed,
An exquisite, unparalleled trove,
An existential menagerie, if you will,
Indiscriminate, eclectic, and bold.

And the stories that she would amass,
Vast tomes atop dust laden shelves,
The penned trinkets and temporal titbits of man,
Bedtime tales of creation itself.

There would be quiet, unassuming ones, ones driven by love,
There would be ones that stood out from the rest,
There would be tragic ones, ones that would go forever unsung,
But the simple, honest ones would be the best.

Every jar, every soul, every book, every tale,
An epitaph for the universe known,
Her museum a beacon for those passing over,
Calling them, guiding them home.

Imagine if Death were a child,
She’d be lonely, she’d be lost and afraid,
But as she toed through the interminable dark after life,
Her jam jars would light up her way.

Door

I was not involved in #NaPoWriMo (now #GloPoWriMo) last year, and while I can’t commit to the whole 30 days, this year I may dip in and out….

Here’s a poem about choice:

DOOR

There is a door
at the end
of the hall,
Shut tight.
It is not locked,
but jammed
with fear.

How did I end up here?

I press an ear
to the wood,
I think I could,
I think I should,
But is an open door
really freedom?
Or just the beginning
of a razor edged wall?

Will I fly?

Will I fall?

Should I sacrifice it all
for possibility?
Or is that naive of me?
In reality the
shades are grey
And so I stay
put.
For now…
Better the devil
you vowed
to know.

A History Lesson

Morning, long time no write, but it’s #nationalpoetryday today so of course, I had to write a teensy little something……

A History Lesson

A flame is ignited,
Paper fans are firelighting,
A history’s divided
and the ashes fall either side,
Her story unfolds
But his story denies it
A silk net that’s entangled
with untruths inside it,
Love may be blinded
but hate sees a spectrum of shades,
Where she becomes all
because he is afraid?
Or misguided? Or privileged?
Or deeply ashamed?
That the past is not buried, forgotten, mislaid,
That from the fight for true justice
he cannot dissaude
this rainbow that broke through
the clouds that had greyed,
Of the truth that will thrive, that will grow,
that pervades,
And won’t march quietly onwards
To the drumbeat he plays,
Won’t be quelled by the promise
of thirty one days
to remember, and teach, and sing out
of an age
when he was her master
and she was his slave.

© 2016

Well Played

I am through,
And it’s all on you.
I know that I will lose,
And when I do,
I know that I will choose
to welcome death,
I cannot catch my breath,
My eyes are sunken,
My mind is drunken,
My face is ripped off and I’m hunkered,
The body blows are raining
and I’m failing,
Because I cannot duck and weave,
How can I when I cannot even breathe?
There’s no reprieve.
I am drowning
in the sky,
I cannot hide,
The night
washes over like a tide,
Fills my lungs with poisoned dye
overflowing through my eyes
like acid tears,
And I am melting,
Dissociative and helpless.

I am through
and it’s all on you,
You could stop this if you choose,
But you refuse
to let it go,
Your heart is stone,
Your hooded deeds are hammers striking bone,
Your words alone are iron
and I am pummeled from a lion
to a haggard Jouvet cat,
Slipping from the only consciousness I had,
My head is lolling,
The water’s calling,
I am falling,
I am drowned,
The roar of life
has dragged me down
and it has left me
without sound,
Silent, bloated, blue.

I am through,
and it’s all on you.

Well played.

Sleeping Bear

I am a sleeping bear
with the richest hide of tan,
Try and wake me if you dare,
But none too many can.
You can poke and you can tease;
I may grumble, I may moan,
But in a deep passivity
I have made my humble home.
A bear unlike my kin,
Yes indeed I stand apart,
For while I may have thickened skin,
It hides a timid heart.
So sleep is what I choose,
And I choose sleep because it’s safe,
For even the strongest sinews
will give way to strain and fray.
One hundred times you’ll shake me,
One hundred times I will ignore,
One hundred one? Now that will break me
and this sleeping bear will roar.
So the moral here is clear,
The warning; plain to see
I am a sleeping bear
and you’d do well to leave me be.

I am a Poem

I am a poem.

A complicated tide
of elements that collide
with purpose.

I can make you feel
electrified,
terrified,
alive inside.

I am niche.

I am gauche.

A guilty pleasure.

A hint of something
that was once so
treasured.

Bad and good
in equal measure.

No value in life…
perhaps in death?

I’ll give
until there’s nothing left.

I am a poem
that’s seldom read
and even then
I’m oft
mis-
read.

I just want to make you feel…
To evoke in you
some buried zeal.

But I am words
and it would seem
no words
can set my essence
free.

Example

My Daddy hitted a man,
There was lots of blood and I sawed
that when daddy hitted the man,
the man went to sleep on the floor,

And daddy had on that face,
Like the one when he hitted my mum
and she cried and cried and cried
and kept asking him what she had done,

But daddy, he said it was fine;
He was grumpy but now he’s OK,
That the man is going to wake up,
That the blood will all go away,

He said “Big Man, don’t worry your head,”
(I like it when he calls me Big Man)
“I just want to take a quick ride
in the back of this cool police van!”

And he promised that he’d come back home
to read me a story, so I can sleep,
But… why didn’t he read one just now
to the man who’s asleep at his feet?

Ice and Fire

Your
heart
was ice,
Your heart
was fire, You
froze and blazed
until I grew tired, Until
it snowed upon my
funeral pyre, You
dragged me
down but
I
flew higher, A phoenix risen from the
fire, Preserved in ice and seared with
ire, At last I’ll be what I desire, I’ll
freeze and blaze and never tire,
My heart is ice, My heart is fire.

Today I have been inspired by a prompt I found here. It was to write using antithesis, or contrasting terms, opposites.

Brick Dust

I feel the mortar
crumble
beneath my fingernails
I have been
scratching away
for years
but
walls don’t
crumble
when all you do
is you rub
your fingers
across the bricks
all huff and puff
but no conviction
terracotta dust
keeps falling
like confetti
on my toes
but we both know
it could take
a lifetime
it could
quite possibly
take us two
yet still
I keep on scratching
at the brickwork
like a sculptor
working stone
and if I place my ear
against its
coldness
and really listen
I’m almost
certain
that I can hear it
that I can hear you
scratching
too.