Posts Tagged ‘poems’


To put it all in context. In the last year or so, I’ve reviewed – or blogged about – collections that I love. Kim Moore’s The art of falling. Christy Ducker’s Skipper. Fiona Benson’s Bright travellers. Jane Clarke’s The River. Work by Shirley McClure, Maria Taylor, Hilary Elfick, Tom Cleary, Bob Horne, Steve Ely, Clare […]

via So you wanna be a rock ‘n roll star: some thoughts on ‘being published’ — the great fogginzo’s cobweb



what did I do before
I discovered you
and the joy you bring me
in piecing together
the jigsaw in my mind
so that the world makes sense
and is no longer
a jumbled mess
of thoughts and ideas
floating around
a bottomless pit
but something
I can feel
make sense of
gives meaning to my world
lets me face the future
with renewed confidence
and believe in myself
my abilities, my talents
to be the best I can be
today, tomorrow, forever


darkness goes
replaced by light
trails dry out
grass beckons me
as water flees
sun light energises
body and mind
as I look up
to my inspiration
and begin my
ascent to nirvana


bridges fill in gaps
that appear in evolution
and stop the sands of time
from escaping to the stars


watching people crossing
the bridge of life
going back and forth
so easily, so freely
and i stand here looking
for the path that will
lead me to that bridge
and onto the path i desire


the party was in full swing

adults talking to adults

under the influence of alcohol

i am a token attraction at the start

a talking point to stare at for five minutes

now i am forgotten, unimportant

left to wander in a room

full of slobbering giants

consuming vast amounts of food and drink

outside i can breather fresh air

clear of the smell of stale tobacco

i wander to the woods my parents warned me about

don’t go there, the bogey man lives there

down one grassy slope

up the other side through so many trees

and back down the other side

ending up at the side of the road

transfixed by an endless stream of

man made mechanical tin boxes

flash by whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

the wind against my bare legs

the only reminder that i am alive

one car stops and strangers get out

eyeing me up and down

talking to each other in hushed tones

then my dad gets out, smiling, eyes twinkling

they had noticed me missing

they had been worried about me

they had come looking for me

i do matter to them after all

 


The moon grows cold
The earth grows old
Wind blows dust away

The harvest of the moon
Is gone so soon
An owl collects moonlight

The bright eyes of the moon
Showed up the worlds end
As the watership went down

The lunar face
Reflected back
The lunacy of man

Moon rises
Earth bathes in silver
Life is precious

 


the handsome lying bastard

promised me the world

in his smooth Irish drawl

he drenched me in dribble

whispering in my ear bibble, bibble

a show on Broadway

a stroll round Central Park

back to the hotel on 5th Avenue

for a night of love and romance

it sounded so perfect…

instead we ended up

in an Irish bar listening

to a band called the Pogues on Us

and some bloke who fancied himself

as Seamus Heaney

he enjoyed the craic with his mates

me, i stared at the remains

of a cheap whisky

lingering in the corner of my glass

fairytale of New York?

more like an empire of nightmares


I’ve been very quiet recently but I’m hoping my creative writing is beginning to flow again. These are the result of last night’s Igniting the Spark session. The theme was sugar. The poems are just for fun and are far from finished but I hope you still enjoy them.

———

he sugar coated the soot

that dropped on him accidently

by telling everyone it was black pearls

falling from the night sky

———

she imagined the dandruff

running through her hair

was streams of sugar

and smiled as she

tasted this strange white

substance on her tongue

———

the sugary smell of engine oil

made the hairs in his nose

stand to attention

as each end sought out

more of the sweetness

that drifted into the ether

from this thick, sticky

substance used to smooth

the passage of grinding pistons

rocketing crankshafts

and tappets dipping away

for him though

it was not enough and he felt

the impulsive, compulsive need

to pour barrels of oil

into his favourite sugar bowl

close his eyes

suck the scent up his nose

his brain eager to receive

sweet, sugar signals

and send him off to dream

of being immersed

in a vat of sweet, sugary oil

feeling it fill every pore

on his sugar coated body

with thick, luscious gooeyness

sending shivers of ecstasy all over him

as he wallows like a hippo

in this temple of oily splendour