Origami Swan on the X51


Down where the wet newspapers flop,
all wrinkled like damp skin.

Among the crushed drink cans,
trundling like drunken tortoises.

In the one place angels fear to tread
but where the rest of us place our souls,

Cresting a wave of slopped beer,
bobs a delicately folded swan.

I don’t know whose skilled digits
took the rough paper of their bus ticket,

then sharply folded it
before releasing it into the wild.

All can I do is watch as the beery sea swells,
then wave the swan off on its voyage.

Continuing on my own journey,
still weary and tired but now with a smile.

 

I really did see an origami swan on the bus, the proof is above in the photo I took on my phone, obviously being a poet I just couldn’t let the moment pass without committing it to paper.

.

Embracing on an Autumn Day – Reprise


Hold me tight as the wind blows,
As the leaves gather round our feet.
So you’ll think of me next Autumn,
When you’re walking down this street.

Hold me close as the clouds gather,
And raindrops begin to land.
So you’ll remember me next Autumn,
When you hold another’s hand.

Then let me go as the sky darkens,
Free me like an Autumn leaf.
No longer attached too what I loved,
Our time together sadly too brief.

I’m reprinting this poem not because it feels like Autumn here in the UK at the moment but because I’m proud to say I heard this week it’s taken first prize in a local poetry contest. The Friends of Merrions Wood chose this poem as a winner in their seasonal poetry contest and it should be in their next news letter, considering I used to play in that very wood when I was young I’m proud to have won,.

The Girl with a Star in her Eye


I met a girl with a
star in her eye.
She didn’t twinkle but instead
radiated white-hot heat
that scorched those who got
too close to her.

I feel for the girl with a
star in her eye.
She captured my heart as easily
as she did that heavenly body.
Now I orbit her, trapped
by her gravity.

I knew a girl with a
star in her eye.
who fell to Earth burning,
briefly so bright
before becoming just
dust.

 

This poem is partly based on the Doctor Who episode “The Pilot,” and the awesome illustration above was actually drawn by Stephanie Hyam who played the Heather the girl who inspired this poem.

Shredded


I summoned a small demon
Bound it to my service.
Chained it in an iron box
Then every day I fed it.

I fed it my shattered dreams
I let it devour my ideas.
It ate my broken promises
All were devoured by its metal gears

Then when I had nothing left
There was only one thing to do
I placed myself in its shiny jaws
And then I was shredded to.

Intangible


Intangible

Are our thoughts just abstract concepts
Intangible until we write them down?

Then as we keenly press pen to paper to free them
As we bring them to life and make them tangible

Are they grateful that we are doing so?
Are they happy with this so called freedom?

Or do they feel they have traded their liberty
For ink-chains and parallel cell-bars?

Do they rail against this bondage?
Do they chafe at their paper prison?

Until we hear their impassioned pleas
Making us realise we have done wrong

Then we do what we should have always done.
We speak and free our thoughts from their A4 cells.

Releasing them into the air where happily they dart
Like spectres, intangible again and free.

 

Sometimes when I’m stuck for an idea I just open the dictionary at a random page and see what pops up. Yes I could be cheating but don’t you think if I was I might have chosen an easier word then intangible? 🙂

Why not give the dictionary challenge a go yourself?

Armchair Explorer


I peek cautiously through the kitchen blinds.
It’s like a BBC 2 jungle documentary out there,
A green canopy growing wild and untamed.
Nature is reclaiming my garden,
and I feel like
this is a job for another day.

I tentatively open the cupboard door.
It’s like an explosion in a skip,
no antiques or heirlooms here.
This is Tutankhamen’s stuff for the tip
rubbish unfit for any afterlife.
Another job for another day.

I’m no Attenborough or Carter
Fearlessly investigating  or excavating.
Instead I brave the TV channels
to visit far away lands
armed with a cup of tea
Sitting comfy in my armchair.

View from a Gun


Every morning your shaking hands strip me
Then anoint me with oil,
that leaves me cold.

With ease you reassemble me.
Then before you break your fast
you offer me supplication.

“May I be blessed, ” you say.
“May I spit holy fire at your foes,
May I strike down the unworthy.”

By this you believe
you transfer your guilt to me.
You believe you instruct, I kill.

But I cannot pull my own trigger.

 

This poem deserves a few lines of explanation. I’m a member of the Birmingham Poetry Stanza group who meet on a regular basis to do poetry workshops, discuss poetry and a whole host of other interesting events. Recently Stanza leader Roz Goddard bought in a host of old postcards she owned and we did an exercise where we chose a image that stood out to us and wrote a dialogue from someone or something in the picture. This poem is the result of that, it is also my fictional interpretation of the image.

Why not see if there is a Poetry Stanza in your area you can join? 

 

Ouroboros


again my poetry starts flowing,
I don’t know where it’s

going round the bend,
when will it ever

end isn’t in sight,
I’m writing all day and

night is it time to stop
I feel like I’m fit to

drop my pen,
fall asleep then begin….

Blue Mocha


My mocha should be chocolate brown
Instead it seems to me to be blue.
It should comfort me on this cold day,
Instead it just reminds me of you.

Because to me it just tastes bitter,
Each time I raise it to my lips.
Its warmth on my mouth stings,
Reminding me of our last kiss.

So that is why my mocha’s blue,
It’s because of you my dear.
You’ve given it a sad aftertaste,
The salty sting of my tears.

 

Brain like a Sieve


I’ve got a few minutes of your time
To try to fill with verse and rhyme.
I’ll start with a poem in my pocket,
Oh bugger, I’ve forgotten it!

Don’t worry I’ve still got my phone,
I’ll quickly call up a poem.
I don’t believe it what do I spy,
Oh bugger, no signal from the Wi-Fi.

No sweat I’ve still got my brain,
All my poems on it are engraved..
But why’s it so difficult to think,
On bugger, I’ve had too much to drink.

But luckily I’ve not wasted your time,
Because my mistakes actually rhyme.
And I hope just for a while
That I’ve made you buggers smile.