Poetry

Name yourself

You are the voice whose edge is diamond

You are the voice of the waves and the swell

You are the voice whose call always wakens me

You are the voice of the people who fell

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Poetry

Tired, was he

He went boldly up to the clocks and abacuses

marking out his life

and demanded to know why

they refused to see how burnt out he was.

 

They paused, studying him, and said,

‘We can see. But you didn’t state it before this.

Therefore, it was not our concern.’

 

And so they went back

to laying out his schedule

as if no interruption had occurred.

 

‘Hold up. Are you saying

you’ve seen me struggling for months

to cope with everything

you’ve arranged that I haven’t asked for

because I kept my mouth shut?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

In response to their answer, he pulled

them all down from the dais

and dissembled them

with his bare hands.

 

‘From now on, I mark out

my own life,’ he said,

and left them in a heap

of beads, cogs and springs.

Poetry

Brilliant morning

I see the edge of the world as the water spills over and falls

splashing my fingers as I turn on the tap

 

The mist in the house smells of everyone but me

I suppose it would, for who knows their own smell?

 

I watch parts of myself spiral down the drain

no longer needed for the travels ahead

 

I hum as my toes sink into the grass, morning frost

making it soft crystal needles

 

I am awake now

Poetry

New Habits

They form over months, subtle and sneaky,

habits we’ve picked up by merging so sweetly.

 

Checking ingredients without a second thought,

carrying a full deck of cards just in case they’re sought.

 

Clothes cleaned and ironed for an overnight stay,

fried eggs swapped for part of the other’s breakfast: a good start to the day.

 

One bathing, one readying the bed,

one solving puzzles, one having just read.

 

Phone calls and messages each day we’re apart,

‘I love you’ said often but not so much that it loses its spark.

Poetry

We are writers

We can tell the story any way we like:

add details,

remove details,

embellish, embolden,

build anticipation or slather on despair.

Confuse affection with love and love with affection,

claim no heart

and a heart big enough for them all.

We are writers,

we tell what we will,

the beginning and end may always be the same

but the middle is ours

to divine.

Poetry

Trouble and Strife for Seven Days

Right, my love,

let’s put away those pants,

move those bin bags,

tidy up like sturdy worker ants.

 

Come, now, dearest,

pick up your feet,

get that motor in your head going,

you’ve got time this week.

 

Shall we go dancing

under the stars,

waltz time away

and have the night solely ours?

 

Look, my darling,

I know I’ve made a mess,

my dungarees are covered in paint,

but I’ve done my best.

 

Wow, my dear heart!

Did you really make that?

Everyone will love it,

they’ll play it wherever they’re sat!

 

Oh, honeybun,

I just can’t get this bit right,

could you read this passage

and make sure it’s not a terrible fright?

 

Sugarplum, what a week!

Shall we kick back tonight,

watch some films

and then conk out like a light?

 

 

Poetry

Round about

The time we spend breaking things down,

Analysing until there’s nothing left to be found.

What’s it all for? What does it mean?

Simply a way to keep the slate wiped clean?

Or is it an impulse to tear each precious thing away,

To keep telling ourselves there’s no possible way?

I think, no matter the reason given,

We should look to the future for all that is hidden

And embrace the changes as they appear

Even when your limit is near

Because beyond that, a gem will shine:

A warm heart waiting for you this whole time.