This is the poem that refused to stay dead
it clawed its way out of my head.
The words struggled and scrambled for the light,
pressed together in a shambolic incoherent half-life.
A poem eager to escape the shallow grave of my brain
a rhyme I thought I’d buried and would never see again.
This is the poem that came back from the dead
that has no heart or spirit left.
Verses that have no right to exist
an unliving, unloved family of misfits.
Constantly struggling just too even breathe
yet unwilling to die despite being so ill-conceived.
This is the poem that should have stayed dead
it shouldn’t live, it should be six feet under instead.
With no obituary pinned to a church noticeboard
no wreathes of roses and no time and place to mourn.
It will be buried tonight in another dark corner of my mind
and I hope that this poem will now quietly lay down and die.
I tugged and sliced you from where you felt safe,
even though you’re unready to face the world.
But here you are.
Blinking, adjusting, squirming,
desperate to be constrained again.
Yet slowly awakening to the fact that
everything is now different.
Hesitantly I take the mewling poem,
clothe it in paper,then
place it in a cardboard crib.
I step back, wondering,
am I ready to be a father?
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.
The Wi-fi at home went down the other day,
Then all the phones crashed as well.
So me and the wife had to entertain ourselves,
It was complete and utter hell.
I asked the wife, “what can we do?
I feel like I’ve undergone electronic castration.”
She replied, “well there is one thing,
We could have a conversation.”
“Is that like Facebook?” I asked.
“Think of it like that if it helps, ” she said.
“But instead of typing,
We talk to each other instead.”
“You mean like I’m doing now,” I replied.
My wife nodded, “that’s a start,
But you’ll need to talk more,
To master conversational art.
Try asking me how my day went,
Or let’s talk about what’s for tea.
But you don’t have to text these questions,
All you need to do is speak to me.”
I felt odd, “I’ll wait for everything to work again,
It’s all very complicated, ” I said.
Then I’ll get my phone out,
And comment on your Facebook status instead.”
So the wife and I sat there all weekend,
Struck it seemed deaf and dumb.
Unable to communicate with each other,
Waiting for the Wi-fi to come back on.
Yes at last my Wi-fi is back, thank you for all your messages the blog was just on a technological hiatus, normal service is now resumed. 🙂
If there’s some water in the corner of my eye
As I say my so longs and goodbyes.
Don’t think that it’s for me that I cry
I’m only thinking of those left behind.
You know who you are, so long and thanks.
P.S. This is a poem about changing my job, my previous post about my blasphemous review has only increased my desire to write. I’m not going anywhere!
Where did those eight years go?
When did our time spent together seem to move at the speed of light?
Vanishing so quickly that the present rapidly becomes memory.
When did you grow so much?
So my back creaks and arms ache when I pick you up,
Remembering when I once lifted you with ease.
When did we start to like the same TV programs?
Laughing like drains at the Cartoon Network.
Yet I used to flee the room if you put on “In the Night Garden.”
When did you become such a sponge for knowledge?
Devouring books and enjoying historical stories.
Making me rack my brains at your questions before I resort to Google.
When did you become so graceful?
Twisting and pirouetting while watching Strictly,
While I with my leaden feet look on in awe.
I know where our eight years went.
They passed quickly because enjoyment always will.
Time never stands still when a father is with the daughter he loves.
The only pleasure I ever got from
my parent’s old conservatory,
was taking a lump hammer to its
dour walls. Demolishing them,
Bricks splinter as I
remember my hated music lessons
within conservatory walls.
I’d mangle scales, sending my sister
scrambling to turn the telly up.
Dust rises as I strike a blow
for all the times I was held hostage
by the rain. I would be there waiting,
my wellies willing the skies to clear. So I
could escape and lose myself in puddles.
Glass splinters as conservatory
windows fragment. I think back to
when I would press my face against them.
Ignoring my homework, I dreamed of
practicing daring stunts on my bike.
Silence. I stand among the rubble,
breathless but triumphant. Then I
dance on the debris enjoying its whimper
like crunch. I halt to pop my blisters, smiling
as my memories like their pain starts to fade
Quick story. I joined the Birmingham Stanza poetry group last month and this poem is the result of a workshop that was held there. The workshop gave each poet a room in a house and an emotion and we had to work them into a poem, my emotion was joy and my room the conservatory. Stanza is a great way to get to know poets in your area and expand your poetic powers click here to see if there is one in the UK near you, or if there isn’t see how to start your own.
Oh and I never really knocked down a conservatory, it’s still standing at my parents house.
Recently the Walsall Poetry Society donated the first money raised from the charity anthology I edited and compiled entitled “Diverse Verse” to the Mayor of Walsall’s selected charity. At the event I chose to read one of my mom’s poems from the book called “End of the Day.”
I didn’t realise at the time someone was videoing the performances, so here I am in.
Here’s a pic of me with the Mayor.
I don’t care that it’s not sunny,
Or that a bird has shit on me.
Because I’m off to meet my love
And if a ton of shit fell from above.
It’s the birds loss and my gain
I’ll soon be with my love I won’t complain.
Sitting in Costa on a rainy day
Jacket plastered to my back,
Nursing a large mocca
And leaving damp tracks.
Waiting patiently for the sun to shine
Waiting hopefully for the rain to break,
Waiting expectantly for you my love
Waiting for my heart to cease to ache.