We are the one a.m. ruminators
notepads nestle next to night lights.
We are the stranded commuters
left behind with our baggage.
We are the happy hour irregulars
drowning our dreams together.
We are the broken clock watchers
more often wrong than right.
We are Marmite
spreading love and hate equally.
We are the lurkers in digital domains
searching for virtual acceptance.
We are the eternal worriers
picking at the scabs of our doubts.
We are the shattered enigmas
unable to find our missing piece.
We are stigmata bearers
scratch marks adorn hands and wrists.
We are the sum of our scars
memories multiply then divide us.
We are the broken puppets
use us with no strings attached.
We are the medicated masses
numb as our world falls apart.
Taken from my new book Irritable Vowel Syndrome available on Amazon UK here
or Amazon USA here
I see you hiding in a window’s reflection
or in the shadow of a street light.
I see you in the pattern of fallen leaves
or traced in the stars at night.
The final days of the year draw in like starving wolves
all harsh red eyes and sharp slavering jaws.
Pouncing they smash you to the floor,
you close your eyes begging to be allowed to forget it all,
as the pack close in with a bloodthirsty roar.
Or maybe it ends this way?
The final days of the year draw in like starving wolves,
all hollow dull eyes and toothless jaws.
Your simple truth sends them cringing to the floor,
that there is no part of this year you wish to forget at all
and the song of your days becomes a primordial roar.
Happy New Year to you all.
These folded pieces of paper I hold are
worn and creased like the soul they come from.
They contain stories pulled like a
rotten tooth from my life,
stories that are as tired as I am,
that are hard to read.
But I still carry these pieces of paper with me
forcing my life into
the ears of puzzled strangers
continually courting controversy
just to spark any reaction.
Until my audience reveal their hand,
their own pieces of paper just
as worn and creased but also
burnt, ripped, shredded and worse.
I fold my life back up
and put it away again in my pocket.
Wondering why I
ever took it out in the first place.
Time to relax now.
Happy Christmas to you and
a peaceful New Year.
Have a great festive season folks, thank you for checking out my poems throughout the year I’ll be back with more after Christmas.
A real Christmas tree
a true evergreen beauty.
Needles in my feet.
Small green depth charges
everyone is poker faced.
Your canary dies.
Break out the Dickens
festive ghosts haunt a miser.
Muppets did it best.
Enjoy all the best haikus at Lost Haiku on Facebook
Life doesn’t stop
no matter how much you
beg, wish, scream or whimper,
it doesn’t fucking stop even
when you grab it by the throat
and punch it in its smirking face.
No, life just looks you straight in the eye
smiling back through broken teeth
and laughs saying.”The best you get out of me
is a pause mate. Make the most of it.”
And a pause is just, well just shit really
as you try hard to remember.
Elastic shoved down your sleeves holding gloves,
going over the lines in Action Man colouring books.
Breaking prized Poole Pottery mugs
and all the things you once shared and loved.
And now you collect certificates and bills, wince at condolences and hugs,
try to sleep without the aid of prescription drugs.
“Stop snivelling you little shit.” Life says.
“The world is still turning it won’t stop for you and your memories.”
Memories of discovering a shared love of ancient history
puzzling over the solution to Sunday night Miss Marple mysteries.
Standing round bonfires waving sparklers and shivering
helping with that first job of newspaper delivering.
And now you fill in so many forms your fingers feel like they’re blistering.
“I’m OK, thanks.” You lie, voice barely above whispering.
Then you realise you don’t need the world
to actually stop you never did, so
you release your grip on life’s neck
dust it down offer and apology and say.
“Thank you for that pause
it encompassed a life time
and that was all I needed,”
I remember the panic house music raised,
torn smileys and cops on the front of the NME.
BBC radio banning use of the word acid,
repetitive bleats of scaremongering in the news.
It was the last year I had hair
until the beats in my head,
became voices that made me
get it all shaved off.
My Mom didn’t speak to me for two days,
said I looked like I’d had chemo,
now she doesn’t remember the story.
It’s funny really how in spite of all
the monumental changes going on,
our minds go back to the little things,
the small moments that define our life.
Tiptoeing round our family,
when all we really wanted to do
was rant and rave loud enough
to be heard.