Down where the wet newspapers lie,
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 origami 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.
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,.
I met a girl with a
star in her eye.
She didn’t sparkle but instead
radiated white-hot heat
scorching those who got
I fell 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
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.
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.
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?
I peek cautiously through the kitchen blinds.
A green canopy appears, growing wild and untamed.
It’s like a BBC 2 jungle documentary out there,
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 equipped with a cup of tea
I sit comfily in my armchair.
Braving only the TV channels
to visit faraway lands.
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….
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.
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.