Isn’t it incredible
When lyrics you haven’t remembered in years
Rise to your lips once more
Like a prayer written on your soul
In the ink of the ice cream your mother wiped off your 12-year-old face?
The beat flows through your veins
To restart your heart with an infectious jolt
Defying the monotonous repetition of life.
It returns your broken identity to your trembling hands.
It is an identity that doesn’t fit anymore,
But you still celebrate the individual pieces
With wide-eyed youth
To stare with wonder at
All of its beauty
So much so, you throw your hands up
And yell the lyrics
Against the empty sky.
It never responds,
But the tired world will hear a story of
Redemption and Return.
Maybe the homeless woman may smile
And her lips will begin to quiver slightly
To try and recover a lost memory;
A child receiving a Taylor Swift birthday card
From two adoring parents.
The Circus of the Ever Given
As black as a swarm of wasps,
Large enough to crush continents,
THE EVER GIVEN
Was the personification of
Approaching,
Indefensible
Doom.
Oddly unaffected by the waves,
Who were breathless,
Sucking at the sides of the canal,
Like a broken hoover
And were unable to lift the boat up and down,
The ship sliced through the waves
Like a heated knife through Styrofoam.
It had to be rescued by tugboats the size of ants,
The size of individual particles of dust,
Like an elephant being carried by a mouse.
It might as well have been a piece of food stuck in the esophagus
Unchewed.
A circus act where the Ever Given was the clown.
Stray Cat
Hello dear,
Do not worry. I’m only here with food.
I see your
Claws extended. Teeth Bared.
Pouncing through the air
Eyes as wide as
A dear in the headlights
Tearing to pieces anything in sight.
Pray, enemy or other.
I can see your ribs and skin poking through
Your rugged fur.
It’s been your only comfort for years.
You want no pity for
The pale white scar across your eyes where no fur grows,
The fleas, defeating you with their army and sucking your blood,
The bush that is your bed when the rain pours down.
It’s ok.
The fresh scratch on the back of my hand reminds me
I used to have claws as long as yours.
Hurt others before they hurt you.
The only way to survive right?
But aren’t you tired of just surviving?
You need to trust in order to thrive.
So, can you trust me?
Sunset Bird
Tired, aren’t ya?
You’ve flown around the world to try and make it spin.
Chased warmth for your wings.
Tried to sing
In the silence of the vast, open water.
People tried to grab ya
But no one caught ya.
No one can hurt ya if you are alone.
But now you want to lie down
Upon sun-baked ground.
Wrapped in beautiful sound
That you don’t have to make.
Listen to the lapping of mountain lakes.
Let the grass massage your aches.
You want to be able to let down you walls.
But the cruelty of the world often makes you feel so small.
I’m Waiting For
I’m waiting for:
The sun to peak over the horizon.
A single bird to sing over fields. Petals of a snowdrop to replace the snow.
Lambs to bleat for the first time. My feet to be reminded of softness of grass. Trees to protect me from the shade.
The air to be a sea salt breeze. Cornwall fudge to coat my lips in sugar. A sky with no ceiling of clouds. Protecting fish and chips from sea gulls. Hearing live music waltz down the pier.
To hear an unexpected knock at the door.
You’re standing behind it.
Nebula
She’s the personification of chaos theory,
Wrapped in a dust cape with a
Heart made of
The broken shards of shooting stars.
She emanates a powdered aqua aura
Which is left behind when she leaves
Like a layer of powdered sugar
On top of a Victoria sponge.
Suspended by nothing,
Her form flows like sparkling streams
Under spring sun.
She thinks she’ll never get far
All she sees is the trail of wreckage behind her
And, she knows, sometime soon,
She’ll be the broken pieces in
Another galaxy’s heart.
Little does she know
Everyone looks to her in the dark:
Her entire being is made up
Of stars.
Blossom in Snowfall
Blushing pink petals
Protectively cuddled in blankets of
Soft snow
Like a golden retriever’s fur.
The vines make veins
And secretive crystal caves
Where no-one can disturb them.
Looking on,
I forget the piercing teeth
Of both the cold’s clenching jaws
And the sun’s scorching tongue.
I believe
Spring and Winter are lovers
Whose kiss will forever be
Separated
By time
But sometimes their fingertips touch
And that is enough for them.
Ethical Pickles
I don’t want to eat your
Ethical pickles.
They’re covered in slimy reluctance,
Contents that makes me gag
To the point my eyes water.
I pick it up gingerly
With forefinger and thumb
While you try and persuade me
‘They’re good
For you.
Plenty of fibre
Improves your loyalty.’
I try to swallow.
You say
You are sooooo grateful.
Soooooo glad that I’m
‘Such a good person.
Such a good friend.’
All I feel is
Stinging in my mouth,
Vinegary Burning
With burdensome bitterness.
It doesn’t sit right in my stomach
But,
As you say,
Friendship is far more important.
Wildflower
I’m tired.
I’m always outside in pouring rain
And expected to stand tall even though I’m
Trampled by passers by.
They’ll only see me as beautiful
For the two weeks
I bloom.
They’re all strangers, who will forget me
After I’m gone.
I wish I could be brought home in someone’s arms and
Placed with pride on a warm windowsill.
Watered, nourished and cherished
Every morning and evening
For the rest of my life.
They would see my beauty
Even before the first bud formed.
And when my fleeting time came to an end,
They would shed a tear
As they scattered me
On top of a Somerset hill.
Hakham Snowman
When your backyard
Is a prison
And snow feels
More like powdered
Glass than in
Past years you
Could burn your
Cello to keep
Your hands warm
For a minute
Or
You could
Build a snowman. Name him Hakham.
Play him a folk Song So the Notes Fly freely to
Your caged neighbours.
Drink a Beer with him
Like old Friends Recounting Tales Of a different time.
Then, When he has to leave,
Your fingers may Be more like his
But you’ll still Wish him
Yihyev Tov.
Green Glasses 