Firework


This morning I was a firework.
Filled with fire and light
Rising brightly
I aimed for the sun.
Though it was hard, I didn’t care.

This morning, I was a firework.
Spent and full of ash
Spiraling down
I fell to the earth.
It was easy, I didn’t care.

Afraid?


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.

Poetry is a lot like IBS…


You think something is coming but after a lot of effort you’re often left with nothing.

Curse your sudden but inevitable turn to poetry


When a poet first steps up onto a stage,
Their mind is screaming that they’re a fake.
And that now on this stage their time has come,
To be uncovered by everyone.

So I wear a disguise so I look the part,
I’ve got tattoos on both my arms.
I sprouted a hipsterish beard on my chin,
Now I can’t be found out, where to begin?

You see I get tongue-tied if I wax political,
Embarrassed if I try to be satirical.
So I thought hard on what lines my rhymes should take,
What could I with words create?

So I just wrote down all the crap in my head,
All the stuff that keeps me awake in bed.
All the stuff that is commonplace to me,
I wanted to capture in poetry.

But I found all that anger hard to maintain,
Everywhere I go I don’t want to bring pain.
So when I stand up before you good people here,
I want to try to spread a bit of cheer.

So I started to write poetry on simpler things,
Beer,cake,pork scratchings.
Poems about binge watching TV,
These I found were the words for me.

So that’s my poetical manifesto,
Here I stand giving it a go.
This is what I’ve decided to try,
But remember, I’m a poet, we always lie.

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?

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….

Happy Sixth Birthday to Me – Have Some Iron Poetry


So another year has passed making it six since I launched this site, have a down beat to celebrate,

Iron Age

I wield my pen with an iron grip
A poetical blacksmith.
Hammering at white-hot ideas
Beating them into submisison
Beating them into rigid words and verse
Until as they cool
There forms solid, heavy, rigid
iron poetry.

Which rusts as I watch.

Age


Absent minded I kicked at a stone,
Revealed within
Was a dead eye
Perfectly preserved.
It met my gaze
Staring back at me
Unblinking
Boring into me
Until I petrified.

What if Love was a Drug?


love-syringe

What if love was a drug?
How would you take it?

Maybe shredded and rolled
tightly in an old Valentine envelope.
Inhaled deeply.
Then exhaled
directly into your lover’s lungs.

What if it was a pill?
Dancing around your tongue then
washed down with tears.
Dissolving slowly,
setting fire to your blood.

Perhaps you could take your
crushed dreams and desires.
Distill them into a syringe.
Then inject the hit
straight to your synapses.

Or would you go cold turkey?
Shivering and sweating,
holding back bile.
Weaning yourself
from that drug called love.