Day 9 of 30 After All These Years.

I make no apologies for the sloppiness of this poem. When my wife and I go out to eat in a pub, we sometimes see other couples who sit in silence apart from talking about the drinks they want to order. It may be of course that this is their "comfortable silence" and they are perfectly content but to independent observers it looks like they have run out of things to say. I am grateful we still have things in our heart to say to each other.

I hope you like the poem

Mark x

 

After All These Years

 
We still slow dance in the kitchen
When a smoochy tune comes on
We still dissolve in giggles
If we do something wrong
 
We still go on adventures
Not just on holiday
Each other is our waking thought
If ever we’re away

She tells me she still loves me
And wouldn’t want to change
After all it’s taken twenty-eight years
To get me properly trained.
 
Our company is still enough
If we dine alone
We surreptitiously kiss in lifts
When left on our own
 
We still hold hands in the High Street
A practice I won’t be stopping
That last decision is economical
If I let so, she goes shopping

A singer wakes and writes

I sing with a small choir and we performed a concert last night. We had a great time and helped raise money for a local good cause. They say write about what you know, so this what I know this morning.

Mark x

Singer wakes.
 
The morning after
the concert before.
The primary thought,
the throat is SORE!
Like swallowed sandpaper
then gargling chilli sauce.
 
Next, that satisfied afterglow
only performers know
of a show well sung
and the memory of applause
hung in the air, as if
invisible cherry blossom.
 
Then, the slow, slow splashdown,
a sense of deflation
as elation dissipates and
the cold air chisels at your resolve.
You’ve slept in, the heating is off
so you do the mental coin flip.
 
Bed wins, so you snuggle in
making yourself hedgehog,
gripping the duvet to keep reality out.
Residual heat keeps you warm as do dreams,
ripe with the promise of the next audience
and their cherry blossom.

 

The last NaPoWriMo poem...and relax!

Sampler

Read me in threads.

See me in precise stitches.

Take in the text

lovingly woven

and specially chosen.

Find comfort in patterns,

decipher the colours

and look for the deliberate blemish

that is

my trademark.

Turn me over,

See how neatly worked I am.

Hold me in your hands

and see if you know me

or what is meant by craft.

Penultimate NaPoWriMo poem

Sunday

Sometime after the storm

optimistic freshness set in.

Skies that could be on the Simpsons

wipe the weather slate clean.

We can go out now.

We don’t want to but

the thought that we could

make things seem better.

Light takes on healing qualities and

shadows seem friendly,

losing their sinister intent.

It’s another Sunday evening

with dinner to come and the

final juice of freedom to be squeezed

from the weekend.

Another cycle,

the same old, same old

and contentment pervades

like the smell of the Sunday roast.

NaPoWriMo 28/30 Grief Encounter

Grief Encounter

Just when you think the waters are safe,

that there’s air to breathe

and walking upright is normal again,

it strikes.

A freak wave,

or rogue wind

turns you cartwheels

with a sucker punch.

Today Dad came calling

and I’m breathless,

head swims in an

ether-induced haze.

If nothing exists in a vacuum

how does nothing

manages to hurt so much

leaving scars on scars?

As is the way of the English,

I fight fire with tea,

dunk biscuits the way my

mind soaks in memories.

But you can’t drink tea

with a stiff upper lip.

As I sip his voice echoes

and a smile returns.

Not at a remembrance,

but how awkward he would find this;

emotion, outward displays of affection

and the lack of decent biscuits in the south.

NaPoWriMo 27/30 Triplet Poem

This poem is a triplet. Three stanzas of three lines of three words

Forecast

She is sunshine,

beams and vitamins,

rays and warmth.

He is rain,

deluge and downpours,

advancing cold fronts.

Do opposites attract

and can they

weather the storm?

Haiku for Jeremy Hunt NaPoWriMo 26/30

A bit of a cop out I know to do a haiku but yesterday was my launch event and it got incredibly busy.

Breakfast at Jeremy Hunt's Residence

"Toast darling"? She asked

"Yes", he resignedly said,

 "I probably am".

NaPoWriMo 25/30

Mischief Winds

The rain gods came today;

showed their glowering faces

and puffed out cheeks.

The signs had knocked our door

had we been more astute.

Disturbed air,

a feeling of unease

and rippled shadows

made us wish we had  

crossed our fingers.

They’re out there now

weighing options.

Are we too small

for their powers

or will they taunt us?

So we draw blinds,

lay lines of salt

across thresholds

and whisper songs

forgotten since childhood.

We will trust to light now,

tend fire as if an orphan,

Swap secrets in the glow

and test truth

with the fragile flames.

NaPoWriMo 24/30 Poem "Golden"

Golden

They were in the middle of a comfortable silence.

An epic, comfortable silence.

So far it had lasted three and a half years.

Each day they woke and bit their tongues

To prevent spoiling their wordless cocoon.

Six months in, he had taken a breath to tell her

He was so wonderfully happy

At how comfortable their silence was

But she caught it and her eyes flashed both lightning and love

Letting him know she knew and saying it might be a jinx.

They left notes for each other

Magnetically pinned to the fridge,

Rediscovered the art of love letters and

found depths to themselves in silence

they would never have found by talking.

He had once left a note suggesting they learn to sign

But she thought that would be cheating and

somehow the silence would know.

So they read each other day by day

Looked deep beyond the other’s soul.

Each day became a dance to the music of rests

Of expanded hearts and anchoring love.

 They disconnected the phone,

Cancelled the cable and hid the radio

At the back of the closet.

Finally, he had to tell her and let it all out.

It was like a soufflé collapsing.

Wordlessly she packed and left,

Crumpled and airless

Wondering how long the next one would last.

Latest NaPoWriMo poem 23/30

That Time

There was that time

we got the good table

by the window with the view

and the sunset was ours to share

or not.

There was that time

we were given free

champagne and you drank

both glasses because I

was driving.

There was that time

the moon turned somersaults

just for us

because it said

we made him happy.

There was that time

we waited until

sunrise, then

turned our backs

pretending we didn’t care.

There was that time

with the butterflies,

like huge, unwieldy

homemade kites

landing on our hands.

There was that time

we remembered there was that time

but we couldn’t remember

how the story ended

or even if it had happened to us.

NaPoWriMo 22/30 Children's poem

Eggs on Beans on Cheese on Toast

The meal I like to eat the most

Is EGGS on BEANS on CHEESE on TOAST

In the town or on the coast

It’s EGGS on BEANS on CHEESE on TOAST

Every day, that is my boast

I eat EGGS on BEANS on CHEESE on TOAST

At posh parties when I’m the host

I serve EGGS on BEANS on CHEESE on TOAST

Order by email, phone or post

EGGS on BEANS on CHEESE on TOAST

I’d fight anyone, even ghosts

For EGGS on BEANS on CHEESE on TOAST

I prefer them to Sunday roast

EGGS on BEANS on CHEESE on TOAST

‘Cos it’s the food I love the most

EGGS on BEANS on CHEESE on TOAST

EGGS on BEANS on

EGGS on BEANS on

EGGS on BEANS on

CHEESE on TOAST!

NaPoWriMo 21/30

Café Antonia (and other fallen soldiers)

It’s strange to think

there are places on the planet

that you can pinpoint

exactly where you where

ten years ago.

Her birthday and a recommendation

from a friendly hotel receptionist

led to not just a meal,

or an experience,

but a story.

We wouldn’t have been brave enough

viewing the exterior,

and a French Moroccan restaurant

in Spain?

We paused.

But it was one of those rare times

when you felt the planets aligned,

the heavens had deigned to favour you

and lady luck greeted you

with a big, wet French (Moroccan) kiss.

Waiters, atmosphere, décor, wine, food, prices;

characters in a narrative

told many times.

We sent many on the pilgrimage.

All came back believers.

Now our memories are just two ghosts

trapped inside the corpse

of another failed business.

We ask a local,

“It’s complicated” he says.

Tonight, we will light a candle;

remember that first tagine,

wine charged by the centimetre

and waiters who showed chefs wiped-clean plates

that promised hope for the English after all.

NaPoWriMo 20/30 Latest poem

Faithful

We are the faithful,

waiting for sun.

We believe in the sun,

we know the sun,

know beyond doubt he will be here soon.

We have felt his love,

our skins show our devotion:

from the lobster of new disciples

to the deep mahogany

of long time apostles.

While we wait for the sun,

we discuss the sun;

the time he appeared yesterday

and how glorious that was,

how clouds tried to thwart him

but because he loves us so much,

he overcame the clouds

and blessed us with his presence.

We drank wine and broke bread

and rejoiced by the taking off of clothes.

Some were baptised in the pool

and others just donned sunglasses

in honour of him, overcome with thanks.

It is late in the afternoon now

and still we keep the faith.

Cream and oil waits to anoint us

towels lie ready to be our shrouds;

surely he will not disappoint us today

when we love him so fiercely

and have spent so much on air fares?

Today's Poem from Tenerife

Girl, undressing.

Today in Tenerife, it is twenty-four degrees

with a little too much sand in the sky.

The girl is working, setting out her

kaleidoscope of dresses, tops and shifts.

When she is ready,

she announces the parade.

On one chair is an unfeasible number

of garments for one girl to wear.

The other chair crouches silently

waiting for the discards after their solo.  

She begins. Parading by the pool

in elegant toe-first steps.

Ten metres to the right, back to centre.

Ten metres to the left, back to centre.

Appoaching base camp, without breaking stride

her hands cross just below the waist and

grasping the hem, in one single,

upward fluid stroke, she has undressed.

Men become meerkats, staring and storing 

her tall, tanned, toned frame

now dressed in only

bikini and high heels.

Just as quickly, she shucks on the next dress

and for an hour repeats the cycle:

To the right, to the left,

undress, re-dress.

It is a lifetime of one night stands

enacted in an hour.

Afterwards, men buy their women

tops and dresses from her.

Penance for their wishes

to have been an audience of one

just once in a faceless hotel

in any anonymous town.

As she leaves they would say,

“I don’t even know your name”.

“Rebecca” she replies,

lying.

NaPoWriMo 14/30 Nearly Halfway!

This Coming Saturday at 11.43am.

Graham had always known he was slightly

psychic. He could always accurately

predict one, out of the six lottery

numbers every week. Well, nearly always.

And he could tell you if a coin would be

heads or tales, fifty per cent of the time,

which couldn’t just be a coincidence.

His unrivalled expertise however

was in predicting when church bells would peal.

His skin would stretch tight like a drum bracing

itself for the stick; nostrils would rabbit

twitch, all body hair would point magnetic

north and he’d whisper, “Look out! This is it”.

Though he knew, he knew it would happen, there

was always that suspension of breath and

heartbeat when anything might not happen;

followed by the wave of high-speed caffeine

adrenalin euphoria when it

did. No less than a kind of exquisite

dying in so many  bittersweet ways.

This is why, he never went to weddings.

NaPoWriMo 12/30

Love is the original GPS

Call to me
in sunshine or rain,
from mountain top
or desert plain,
in city scape
or fields of grain.

Call to me
whatever the hour
when days are honey
or bittersweet sour;
if holding thorns
or holding flowers.

Call to me
when out of sight
at dusk or dawn or
a minute to midnight;
call in darkness,
call in light.

Call to me
if your plans are blown
in heaving crowds
or all alone.
Never the prodigal,
never disowned.

Whenever, wherever,
call to me.

NaPoWriMo 11/30 Love, Light and Peace

I'm not going to deny it. I'm really busy and have lots to do so this is a quick write and a simple format but it is still heartfelt.

Love, Light and Peace.


Let love be your compass
Let love be your breath
Let love be your living
Let love be your death

Let light be your conscience
Let light be your guide
Let light be your constant
Let light be your pride

Let peace be your comfort
Let peace be your shawl
Let peace be your portion
Let peace be your all

NaPoWriMo 10/30 Paper Diamonds: a poem for Woody Guthries's lost songs

Paper Diamonds

“This year it will be 100 years since the American folk singer, Woody Guthrie was born. When Guthrie died in 1967, he left complete lyrics for more than 3000 songs which lay undiscovered until his daughter Nora found them in the mid 1990s”. BBC Website.

I guess it’s the same as love.
How long they were lost doesn’t matter,
it’s the being found that counts.

Three thousand sleeping beauties
awaiting the kiss of daylight
to bring them back to life.

Imagine the daughter;
heart leaping like salmon in her chest
up the waterfall of lost lyrics.

Each one, “As fresh as if written this morning”,
a love letter, carrying him back
in stark, pencil-scratch reality.

They say, it is only the three-dimensional
arrangement of atoms that distinguishes
diamonds from graphite.

Look at the man’s wisdom-soaked words
and tell me, we haven’t found a new element:
paper diamonds.

NaPoWriMo 9/30 Day 9 Eavesdropping

Eavesdropping

Weightless,
your words spiral,
shape-shifting
wind-drifting
verbal pollen
looking for victims.

On hearing,
the force exerted
revokes the law of physics.
Issued so lightly
yet landing with
torque-laden violence.

Finding you is easy;
corpses are your bread crumbs,
survivors no matter how maimed
consider themselves lucky.
And yet concern is a stranger
to your cold, too beautiful face.

NaPoWriMo 6/30

Respect for the Father of Loud
In memoriam, Jim Marshall

This is the time for respect
but not for silence
for Jim Marshall,
the quiet giant of rock.

When the names of the greats are read:
Hendrix, Clapton and the mighty Led
Blackmore, Beck, Who and even Slade,
They all owe a debt to amps Jim made.
Making music electric
with such warmth and tone,
they were even used by the Rolling Stones
(and you know how hard they are to satisfy).


Visionary, engineer,
mean musician and pioneer
putting the soul into rock ‘n’ roll
from teenage bedroom kicks
to classic riffs and licks
that fired us to heaven.
This was life, full-lived:
turned up to eleven.

So all hail the Lord of Loud,
from rehearsal rooms to festival crowd
So though I’m too old
and in no way cool
and I’ll cop a lot of flack ,
I’m going to plug in, turn it up
and play it loud
on a 100 watt Marshall stack.

I’ll be doing that instead
of singing solemn hymns.
It’s seems the most appropriate way
of saying “Thank you, Jim”.