Black and Red - poem

A new poem for you all. 

Inspired by: doodling red and black hearts in my notebook (as if I am twelve...)When: 27/11/2013 in lecture

Black and Red

Black hearts against the red.

Can you see them?

They are the brightest hearts

(sometimes.)

Those lovers:

their eyes shine.

They are clever and bold and bright

and cruel.

(Like we were.)

We were shining, weren't we?

We were, and still are, 

young

with red-blood pumping.

Through time, we've changed. 

Your heart is matte now,

mine shines in the dark.

You can have the Sun my love, 

and I shall watch the stars

(Our stars.) 

You will learn to love again.

I shall finally learn to live.

My black, black heart

oh, how you made it beat.

You still do, you know

(but do you know your effect on me?)

I think you will love her

she isn't the one, but she is Alive. 

Enough for you, anyway.

(She isn't me, is that good?)

I wasn't enough. (Could I have been?)

OR: I was too much, perhaps?

We have danced together

beneath the stars.

Will I feel the light of the Sun

on my skin again?

There is no heat on my skin.

Not anymore.

You are alive, my darling.

And I shall be forever jealous;

guarding my stars in the black night

that is my heart. 

Books (poem)

Books give us

something

for which we crave

They journey from lust

to love,

and from cradle

to grave.

Books drag

us

into worlds unknown.

The sky,

the sea

and the fields we

sew.

Books show us

what we

need.

They help us to grow,

to learn:

and to finally

be free.

Bound

to each other

begging for a look

these inked white pages

are far more,

than a book.

You and me

(written after reading Part One of Perks of being a Wallflower)

Idle by,
you and me
forever observing,
who we're supposed to be.

Laughing out loud.
Them at us - 
Forever learning
who we cannot trust.

Struggling,
side by side.
Secreting the tears,
we know we must hide.

Don't you worry,
because one day,
I will wipe your tears away. 

When a Siren calls...

She may look sweet -
she might even be kind.
But her life's aim,
is to break your mind.

When a Siren Calls:
it's the sweetest thing.
It's what sailors lust for,
the wenches that sing.

Her lullaby calls,
and it's his undoing.
"Her love I know!"
He cries as she will sing.

Bewitched at sea,
his grave will say,
death after lusting,
When the Siren called that day.

The Death of a Writer

The sunlight shadowed her as she sat quietly at the desk of her tiny office. One door. One window. One chair. One desk. Hundreds of document files, papers, notebooks: crammed into that box that she called an office.

Hand on her head, and the other grasping the black-ink roller ball: she waited. 

The words would come, they always did. Sometimes it took seconds, sometimes it took days, but they always came to her rescue in the end.

But today, the words hid from her. Nib never touching Page. The ink not soaking itself into the blankness of the page, nor glorying itself into the strength of the written word. 

The writer breathed in and out, in and out, in and out. and sighed. She needed the words today - of all days. The day she met him, she thought nothing of it - the man with a spare room and an office for her. A man with eyes so dark she lost her mind every time she looked at him. A man standing in the doorway, watching her every move. 

Today, her life depended on the one thing she thought she would never lose: her words. And today, she was going to die.  

Circle of life and the pain of love.

(written whilst listening to:
Carrie Underwood – Before He Cheats)


Circle of life and the pain of love.

 Never taken seriously
not in the eyes of love.
Loved by those around you,
but not by the heavens above.

Angel isn't my style -
I'm too hellish for heaven.
But the want of another,
takes you to sins of seven.

Greedy for their love
lusting for the touch.
The taste of a beautiful stranger
will never be enough.

Humanity yearns
for its own kind.
Grabbing at the hurt,
to which we choose to be blind.

Love is a terrible thing, but we need it, so:
Love is the worst of us,
but guides our hearts to know. 

The year they stopped making music.

The year they stopped making music.

In 2015, the year I graduated from university, musicians realised, with their fans alike - that the good music had been written; the bad ignored and erased from our memory; and the greats had been idolised.

By 2012, auto tune had taken over the music industry, and originality had gone out of the window.  The "artists" had nearly given up: not even the music and lyrics - signing off to the unknown labour of the music industry, and taking all the credit.

The lyrics had all been used; the tunes had all been taken. Nothing was left to produce.

Music fans relayed to the days when everything was recorded life, harmony was done by real people, and the drums were on set - not a series of faders and tracks. The soundtracks from classic eighties movies like Footloose became bestsellers: beating the record sales from their hay days. Nobody was interested in the fake notes of drum and bass, or R&B. Fans wanted the soul: the courage and fear that came through when the Greats belted it out standing next to the microphone. The music was going to save their lives, not make them a star with a perfume range and a high heel collection for Debenhams.

When I graduated, Vinyl was the way to go. Music was backtracking and returning to the well-known and well-loved tracks of the eighties. Downloads were still as big as ever, but the original vinyl's had become classics: objects to be treasured - not kept in dusty attics. 

dying flowers

Youth As We Truly Are - Poem Feb 2013

Youth As We Truly Are:



we may be young
we may be blind
but as life goes on
we become unkind.

we carry on
as people do.
forever looking
for what is true.

we never learn,
few seldom do.
but there is a difference,
between me and you.

You will change.
it happens oh so slow.
and after you have,
You will know where to go.

Silly Girls and Boys

Silly Girls and Boys

What happened to the times,

When girls chased boys

And guns and knives,

Were plastic toys?

What happened to the times,

When being innocent,

Was the only way

To really feel alive?

What happened to all these children?

Generations change.

They use to lark and play,

But now they wish their youth away.

What happened to the times,

When you didn’t want to grow up,

Because you wanted to carry on

Being a child, never growing up.

Now to the times,

When men chase lone women,

And guns and knives,

Dominate all their lives.

Now to the times,

When innocent isn’t any fun,

And by your teens,

You’re alone and have a son.

Now to the times,

When they walk their kids to school,

And [they] hope

They don’t break the same rules.

Now,

Time to realise,

That they were the girls and boys

That they once despised.

Carter Free

Carter Free

I remember the day that I met Carter Free.

He was enigmatic and boyish.

I remember the day I fell for Carter Free.

He was sweet and my carnage.

I remember the day I loved Carter Free.

He returned the favour.

I remember the day I married Carter Free.

I said yes and so did he, with vigour.

I remember the day the doctor told me.

I remember the day I lost Carter Free.

He lost his life, and so did we.

I remember the day I buried Carter Free.

He wore his wedding dress.

I remember the day I forgave Carter Free.

He left me with a heart to suppress.

I remember the day I remembered Carter Free.

Our time together.

I remember the day that I met Carter Free.

And I will never regret it.

Dot

Dot I

Ever experienced,

That strange feeling?

One you have sensed,

To feel it’s being?

Ever experienced,

The peculiar notion,

Of endless unknown fish,

In a forbidden ocean?

Ever experienced,

That daunting thought,

When you have lost something,

That was barely a Dot?

Ever experienced,

The sheer dread?

When the world comes crashing,

And the one you love,

Is utterly, undoingly,

Dying.

Dot II

The memory of a person,

Is far more than ever known,

Not just a photo,

But the presence of an empty throne.

The red roses bare

The truth of our lives.

You were the boys,

We had to sacrifice.

I never met you,

And neither did he.

But I shall always regret,

The decision to not let you Be.

The choices were made

Rash and clinical.

I thought I was OK,

But now – I am cynical. 

Girl on Your Arm

Girl on Your Arm

I see you some days,

A girl on your arm.

You make me regret,

Coming back to this town.

That awkward glance,

That lost lovers share.

The one that occurs,

With the ghost of love there.

Those cobbled streets,

Will never be the same –

Where you ruined my heart,

And she played the game.

A sweet thing wasn’t she?

Could be no more than twenty?

I saw her the other day –

She’s still a gamer by the way.

Generational Blindness

Generational Blindness

I know not of the war;

Of bloodshed and of death.

I know not of the white feather girls,

And boys of hope and faith.

I know not of sanctuary,

Of rations and hidden life.

I know not of black-out curtains,

And Gods to be forgiven.

I know not of treason or hate,

Of starvation or fake joys.

I know not of scary skies,

And rooms abandoned with broken toys.

I know not of patriotic duty,

Of fighting until the very end.

But, I know of love and loss,

And the death of a loved friend.

Fiction History Hurts

Fiction History Hurts

The history we wish for,

Is never the one to approach

(in novels).

Her pages mislead us;

Build up our hopes,

And have us praying for happier notes.

Then we reach the middle,

Our hearts full,

Our brains busy,

And we hope to untangle the riddle,

Of history.

Its mystery beguiles us,

The ignorant.

But by the end,

We are hopeless and lost.

We have the facts,

And we have shed the tears.

We can no longer go back,

And forget our greatest fears.

Street Girl

Street girl

Bent down on her knees

Forgive me please.

The agony she goes through.

The tears she never shows you.

As long as she shuts her mouth

He’ll keep her down south.

She’s friendly on the outside but

The babe is full of pride.

Her life will never be the same

Because its time she played the game

Of her life

The strife

The knife

She fights.

Her life will never be the same.

She will never play the game.

Again.

Honeymoon Horror

Honeymoon Horror

Gazing around the room,

She sees the things he touched –

Her forever gone groom.

The bed in which they lay

The desk at which they leant

The lights that were never used

Kisses that her lips earned.

The blankets of love,

Stay crumpled on the floor.

The place they had laid blissful,

Oh, only the night before.

His jacket over the door,

His shoes, neat on the carpet.

He bought them just the day before,

He’s lost his wallet.

His scent is gone, his body too.

Too quick and all too soon.

She was about to love

Her forever gone groom.