These words are explosives,
This poem is a bomb.
By starting to read it,
I’ve lit the fuse and run.
Now a crackling spitting flame,
Ignites my words one by one.
My work is burning bright,
Soon it will all be gone.
Then there’s nothing left to burn,
The fuse has reached the bomb.
And with the spluttering of a damp squib,
This poem is done.
Happy Black Country Day, and what better way than to celebrate than with a poem about my home town of Walsall which is a proud part of this great region.
My Roots are Showing
Air cushioned souls
descends a cobbled hill.
Worn stones with tarmac patches
wind past a church that
casts a shadow
over a town built before it,
But now living in it.
A town built on
lime and leather,
saddles and soot,
an arboretum and an art gallery,
Highgate mild and pork scratchings.
Foundations built to last.
A town where we’re not scared
to roll up our denim sleeves
to show our tattooed hearts.
A town I joyfully bounce through
pen in one hand, pasty in another
trying to capture its soul
I posted my photos on Twitter,
I shared my photos on Facebook.
I uploaded my photos to Instagram,
I put them up on my blog.
I organised my photos on my USB stick,
I burnt my photos on to a CD.
I edited my photos on my phone,
I stored my photos in a folder on my PC.
But suppose one day these systems crashed,
Where for my memories would I look?
They would be nothing but vanishing pixels
When they should have been safe in a book.
You’ve probably seen those perfect cartoon princesses,
With wardrobes full of glamorous dresses.
That fit elegantly around impossibly thin hips,
While they smile, flashing perfect white teeth and red lips.
Setting standards that are ridiculously high,
Making today’s kids aspire to what parents cannot buy.
I mean what pet shop stocks rabbits that sing?
Where can you find a cheeky snowman who does cute things?
Despite kids pleas you can’t let them live with dwarves in a shack,
Not unless you want social services on your back.
And as for meeting the prince of your dreams
They’re not nearly as common as cartoons make them seem.
So I say sod those perfect cartoon princesses,
Strangers to real life problems and stresses.
Stuck forever in an animated world that isn’t real,
Unable to change, grow or even feel.
Unable to hide away from all the laughter,
As we realise just how fake’s their happily ever after.
This morning I was a firework.
Filled with fire and light
I aimed for the sun.
Though it was hard, I didn’t care.
This morning, I was a firework.
Spent and full of ash
I fell to the earth.
It was easy, I didn’t care.
Earlier this month I was invited on the Brum Radio Poets show and I’m pleased to say the program is now available for your listening pleasure. It was fantastic to be invited and share the show with their great host Gav Young and the talented poet Christina Thatcher.
The Devil doesn’t wear Prada you
have been sadly misinformed.
Instead he wears a tracksuit of
shadow and trainers that
are as silent as the
dead of night.
He hides in plain sight, right
in the corner of your eye.
The stranger you swear you know
but can’t place. Who smiles at you like
a cloud passing across the sun.
I am not afraid of dying
I am not afraid of taking my last breath
I am not afraid of the end,
I am not afraid of death.
I am afraid of lying in the grave,
I am afraid of being buried with my regrets.
I am afraid of not being able to rest,
I am afraid of what I can never forget.
I slowly peel my body from the bus seat,
Like sticky, sweaty, sellotape.
My once icy bottle of water,
Starts to boil then evaporate.
My ice cream dribbles down my hand,
My flake seems limp and dead.
As the sun shines down mercilessly,
Burning the bald spot on top of my head.