Things we love as a child
A little brown bear with mismatched button eyes
With a flat snout from being hugged, given as a surprise
Born from my dad’s attempt to sew in hospital years ago
The only connection with an absent father I did not know
Another comfort was a one blue blanky
Dragged about as a well-loved hanky
So grim that when washed it fell apart
A new one was made but with no heart.
Guess who has a fantastic miracle worker who restored her website to her last night? Bless all Brians.
Anyways I wanted to upload this peom. It’s been burning at me for months with the all consuming grief that has afflicted my world. And its probably petty and not the best way to reintroduce myself but I still feel this way a year later.
Hatred
A palliative nurse, cold and corrupt
Told my terminally ill friend that her time was up
Ellie asked “Is there something that will help? I’m terribly sore’
The nurse said ‘There’s no point, you’re halfway out the door
Ellie lost immediate hope and died later
And I swore that nurse Stacey – I will always hate her
A creature that heats and burns
Barely contained by human arrogance
Simmering for an opportunity
To brand the skin forever
Always be cautious
For Fire is a chancer.
Flames whisper and hiss in the air
Lighting vast emptiness
Crawling rapidly with flare
A firewall of suffocation
The Earth shudders
Flexing forgotten muscles
Stretching plates screeching against each other
Resting in the black underground
Spiralling raw energy vents
Power in streams of wind
Crashing against other elements
Demanding attention
Slowly meandering through
Cutting an easy flow
Unassuming yet vital to you
Cover our world.
Listening
Small noises shuffle in the morning
The tap drips and the house creaks
Giving way to the days first movement
Shifting the environment into play
He speaks flat without rising peaks
But I would rather listen to the world
The demands of the day reveal
And I want to curl in the silence
Colour ignites; painting a new canvas
And I move through it treading water
As the walls come into focus
I feel trapped listening to the room
Outside i can breath as sure as birds sing
And I wander over crispy leaves
Once more nature flare
And I listen with keen ears
Patience
Quivering on a knife’s bending edge
Waiting for the clock to chime in agreement
Hoping despite sweat crawling down spine
Snapping and growling for Tomorrow
Productive shocks rally against time
The world barely turning like an upsidedown snail
And muttered prayers drift through the red fog
As finally the day – Ends
Near a planet made of hats
And around its outer rings
Spin purple inverted gravity cats
And other weird outer-spacey things
I did enter my first ever competition and I was proud of myself for ‘turning up’. I had read it a thousand times perpetually distracted looking for spelling errors and grammar issues. Then, feeling fairly ok with it, I submitted it.
Then about three days later I went back and read it… And I’d repeated two words twice and that had damaged the flow of the poem. And, of course, then I noticed some idiosyncrasies with it. Then I realised that it contained fatal flaws and that there was no hope in hell of it even being taken remotely seriously. So! Rather than wait to be told it was either shit or ineffective – I’ve corrected what I could and posted it as I would have wanted it to vaguely be.
Armed with Paper
Strong prisons can have paper bars
Creating books with empty memoirs
And blackout ceilings of Latin Decrees
Where only the poor are cut off at the knees
Exempting only inmates of bloodied Titles
Conversations translated with bias subtitles
On a malleable foundation of benefit hate
Privilege redefining the disabled sick fate
Knowledge is power so they increase the security
Plunging Internet light into controlled dark obscurity
Foreshadowed by brandings breathing in an enclosure
Ninety Nine will fall when One controls the exposure
I’m not sure if it is completely ‘right’ as it is done to a very structured strict pattern that has to be followed (see the bottom bit with the colour code) but here is my first attempt at a Sestina.
Time (my first ever attempt at a Sestina)
What we had at the beginning was Memory
Living and forming with dawning Hopes
In ever changing dynamic Dreams
Back when there was always more Time
Almost with an unreachable intangible Future
Where we were always connected Together
For as long as allowed we stood Together
Creating conflicts which fade within Memory
Consciously choosing a happier Future
And bending all of our compromised Hopes
With the inevitable start of losing Time
But a small part holds onto the Dreams
Slipping further and living in bright Dreams
Some plans fall apart whilst others come Together
And the world speeds up into ever lessening Time
Where situations become frozen stills of Memory
But in amongst the chaos lives our Hopes
And what was once a concept is now a real Future
Then it is here – the Future
Time for thoughts to be real or remain Dreams
A decision on the validity of certain Hopes
And older travellers cannot always remain Together
Holding onto only a distinct Memory
As we push forward at the mercy of Time
A paradox of too much and too little Time
Crushes out the frustrated Future
The most valuable treasure becomes Memory
Yet we rely and delve further into Dreams
Wishing to reunite and be Together
Praying there is something beyond Hopes
The tighter we hold onto our Hopes
The more it unravels in Time
Although in the end we are Together
It is in an unpredicted Future
In a new land formed from Dreams
Locked deep within an archive of Memory
All of our Hopes fold into a collective Memory
And Time becomes as translucent as Dreams
Everything is reformed Together in a natural Future
I’m in hospital tomorrow so I did my homework a little earlier this time (for someone that doesn’t usually write in any proses, short form or poems….I seem to be using all three recently – And rather badly, I might add).
This poem/thingy is what it is and is nothing more.
Endless Waltz
For meaningful love to withstand- the fantasy must dissolve
Leaving you standing in a scarcely advertised desolation
Seeing and speaking to another as nothing but yourself
Without the glittering glare of skewed expectations
With a small human sneeze that says “It is Ok – to just be Real”
Reality should triumph with love growing strong
But the dance is often more important than the song
And someone has to clean up those scattered Rose petals
Before they curl away from life; rotting into brown dust
And taint the fresh fabric beneath with scattered intentions
Bricks used to build you up; Are the same ones you end up buried under
An open mind abruptly locks down; behind darkened eyes
The exhaustion of Love – becomes the precursor to its very demise
And the endless waltz across fairy tale pages – Stops.