The final days of the year draw in like starving wolves
all harsh red eyes and sharp slavering jaws.
Pouncing they smash you to the floor,
you close your eyes begging to be allowed to forget it all,
as the pack close in with a bloodthirsty roar.
Or maybe it ends this way?
The final days of the year draw in like starving wolves,
all hollow dull eyes and toothless jaws.
Your simple truth sends them cringing to the floor,
that there is no part of this year you wish to forget at all
and the song of your days becomes a primordial roar.
Happy New Year to you all.
These folded pieces of paper I hold are
worn and creased like the soul they come from.
They contain stories pulled like a
rotten tooth from my life,
stories that are as tired as I am,
that are hard to read.
But I still carry these pieces of paper with me
forcing my life into
the ears of puzzled strangers
continually courting controversy
just to spark any reaction.
Until my audience reveal their hand,
their own pieces of paper just
as worn and creased but also
burnt, ripped, shredded and worse.
I fold my life back up
and put it away again in my pocket.
Wondering why I
ever took it out in the first place.
Time to relax now.
Happy Christmas to you and
a peaceful New Year.
Have a great festive season folks, thank you for checking out my poems throughout the year I’ll be back with more after Christmas.
A real Christmas tree
a true evergreen beauty.
Needles in my feet.
Small green depth charges
everyone is poker faced.
Your canary dies.
Break out the Dickens
festive ghosts haunt a miser.
Muppets did it best.
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Life doesn’t stop
no matter how much you
beg, wish, scream or whimper,
it doesn’t fucking stop even
when you grab it by the throat
and punch it in its smirking face.
No, life just looks you straight in the eye
smiling back through broken teeth
and laughs saying.”The best you get out of me
is a pause mate. Make the most of it.”
And a pause is just, well just shit really
as you try hard to remember.
Elastic shoved down your sleeves holding gloves,
going over the lines in Action Man colouring books.
Breaking prized Poole Pottery mugs
and all the things you once shared and loved.
And now you collect certificates and bills, wince at condolences and hugs,
try to sleep without the aid of prescription drugs.
“Stop snivelling you little shit.” Life says.
“The world is still turning it won’t stop for you and your memories.”
Memories of discovering a shared love of ancient history
puzzling over the solution to Sunday night Miss Marple mysteries.
Standing round bonfires waving sparklers and shivering
helping with that first job of newspaper delivering.
And now you fill in so many forms your fingers feel like they’re blistering.
“I’m OK, thanks.” You lie, voice barely above whispering.
Then you realise you don’t need the world
to actually stop you never did, so
you release your grip on life’s neck
dust it down offer and apology and say.
“Thank you for that pause
it encompassed a life time
and that was all I needed,”
I remember the panic house music raised,
torn smileys and cops on the front of the NME.
BBC radio banning use of the word acid,
repetitive bleats of scaremongering in the news.
It was the last year I had hair
until the beats in my head,
became voices that made me
get it all shaved off.
My Mom didn’t speak to me for two days,
said I looked like I’d had chemo,
now she doesn’t remember the story.
It’s funny really how in spite of all
the monumental changes going on,
our minds go back to the little things,
the small moments that define our life.
Tiptoeing round our family,
when all we really wanted to do
was rant and rave loud enough
to be heard.
Slouching down the street
drinking shrapnel jangling
rough rolled cigarette smouldering.
Sun’s blinding like a flare
shadow loiters behind me,
I feel like I’m aging in dog years
panting, looking for shade,
when I just want to jump pavement cracks
fall and laugh and feel young.
But as I look down
I pretend not to care where I tread
focusing anywhere but the here and now so.
I don’t hear the tune of the coins in my pocket.
I don’t see the patterns forming in the clouds.
I don’t see the words dancing with the litter in the breeze.
I don’t see the poem stalking me from my shadow.
This is the story of the girl
who fell in to the cracks between the world.
Who found herself among all that is lost,
all that is unloved, unwanted, all that has been forgot.
This is the story of the girl,
trapped in the cracks between the world.
Who at first tried hard but couldn’t escape,
Until she realised this life was now her fate.
This is the story of the girl,
resigned to living in the cracks between the world.
As she gave up on hope and began to fade
slowly becoming another trapped shade.
Then there is the story of the boy who saw the girl
as he stood on the edge of the cracks between the world.
And they fell in love at first sight so they say,
though what happened next is a story for another day.