poetry

There is always a desire to belong and perhaps as we get older it comes more to the forefront, particularly since it gets much harder if you have not already found your place.

Half. Half of a whole. Optimism and Pessimism. The following pretty much says where I stand.

Half

The end is not complete
perhaps not keenly grown
or the roots were
cut.

Maybe it is meant to chance
until discovered
by accident in eyes cross the room

until then
there are no flowers in the pot.

A little messing about off the cuff before I have to return to work.

Inspirational Block

Short
Stop.
Long
Pause.
Jumble words from a bag.
The bag is empty...
Short
Stop
Long
Pause
Fish with an eye
Blind to the world
Short
Stop
Long
Pause
Repeat take a pen to paper
Erase the lines
Short
Stop.
Long
Pause.

Take up photography.
It’s a dam sight easier.

Expression. My father has always said "You must talk about things or else no one knows and nothing gets solved."

A simple thing, which when a kid seems pointless but it is far from it, something I learnt the hard way.

So with that in mind, a personal poem about what it is to write from my own point of view.

Blood Trails

Dark strawberry wine scrunches
then dashes like ignited gun power.

Hands traced, the droplets drip
stain the white crisp sheets

in the wake of a child’s suppressed tongue.

I have been writing a section on my biography and before moving on I thought I would dabble on a poem, I like to make the most of my lunch hour if I can.

This is a plucked subject from thin air and written off the cuff.


The Well

Voice held
turned round and round
Runs the walls
an invisible creature
fleshed in sound
abandoned to die
at the bottom of the well.

The greatest things in life never have a price tag. Often it feels the things we do not want come easily and the things we do, evade us. We succeed but not in the manner we desire try as we might.

The Standing Man

Ten men of Midas stand
roll, turn green on vegetables and
haemorrhage red on being dumped.
They survive
sit in Midas pocket like unwanted guests
come back like boomerangs
into an empty home.

Everyman is their own judge, jury and executioner. Sin is the moral wrong, a short step away from regret.


Sins

Malevolent dark oak
lines a room shunned from the eye.

Laid out from the pocket of a cloak
midnight is stunned beneath glass

Made to sit and listen to the list of its sins.

Wilfred Owen's poem Dulce Et Decourm Est stuck with me from the moment I read it. Although it has it's technicalities it does not distract from the connect ability Wilfred undoubtedly wanted to achieve and the picture he wanted to paint in words.

Wondering what to type at lunchtime, I thought I would doodle on the image (or some of them) that Wilfred give me from reading Dulce Et Decourm, although I haven't re-read it prior to the doodle.

If there is one thing I will at least do right and not miss, it will be death. When it comes to affairs of the heart, someone somewhere seems to continually fuck with the clock and it always ends in a missed opportunity. The following is a raw expression.

One Minute Too Late

She was here,
Smile bright as the flutter of a heart
burst in a rainbow upon a face.
Breathless I ran
past ache and limbs of acid
Stumbled and fell.
I became a ghost on the platform
Lost in the crowded double faced space,
the shadow of hands,
Swore never to run again.

Not in the best of moods at the moment, which partly explains the below.


Pestle And Mortar

Pestle upon bone
pokes and grinds
like a bully’s prod.

In musical chorus
Old hinges crack
backed by moan,

a groan to usher in pain
who cannot behave
at the rear of the room

only preach and piss
old age’s impending
doom.

Its when you start to go grey when age is brought out in front of you and you can no longer causally look the other way and forget about it.

The following is a doddle on age.