Tag Archives: poetry from Bootle.

She Sat Smug In Conceit.

She sat,

cross-legged, crossed arms tight shut,

cross face with eyebrows heavily beating

its own pulse and declared, “I wish

your generation would stop going

on about the crimes of the war,

it will never happen again!”. Smug,

self satisfaction, creased her face

and she allowed herself the smidge

of a smile, teeth like stance, serpent begging question

and awaiting the rebuff of standard attack.

 

Breathing heavily as I make my way

past men in masks, not frightened,

terrified for the future, as the prospect of

She Sat Smug In Conceit. full post

(136 words, estimated 33 secs reading time)

Stupid Boys On The Steps Of St. George’s.

They raised their arm in Nazi salute,

in childish effect, the stupid vanity

driven action of the absurd

and the easily led, upon the beauty

of St. George’s Hall and my body

shivered with the cold of a February day

in which had turned sour; in which took on

a desperate meaning

as we are once more confronted

by the idle in thought few,

by those that pander to the flag

and who don’t understand

its consequence and the reasons

for making sure they are to be seen

Stupid Boys On The Steps Of St. George’s. full post

(157 words, estimated 38 secs reading time)

Apparently He Died Alone.

Apparently he died alone.

The year which had taken greats and the loved,

by its own admission, Time had murdered

them all without malice,

with charm and pity, sad

for the sadness Time had caused

as it placed a hand over the faces

and blew out their waxen candles

one last time, celebrated, wailing

and tears, celebrity bringing its own

terminal end with a semblance of togetherness.

Yet he died alone, in a doorway,

February cold his warmth

as he shut his eyes and huddled closer,

Apparently He Died Alone. full post

(148 words, estimated 36 secs reading time)

Put On A Proper Suit.

Put on a proper suit,

do up your tie,

sing the National Anthem,

cut your hair, it’s a disgrace

stop biting your nails,

you go to Drama School?,

your only option lad

is to join the army,

make a man out of you,

pacifist, you’ll grow out of that lad

in the real world,

where’s your uniform,

where’s your tie,

you will have to wear one every day lad,

in the real world,

listen to proper music,

stop reading that type of book,

Put On A Proper Suit. full post

(243 words, estimated 58 secs reading time)

She Thought, He Thought.

She always yearns to be free,

just to breathe, just to experience

a life of her own

and not one tucked away in his shadow,

a silhouette fighting in dusk

and whilst she knows he acknowledges her

existence, he was always sincere like that,

it was always in whispered tones

and the suggestion that she would never

see daylight, that she was the companion

who understand more than he ever could.

 

She desires, he desires, both always

on the losing side, for existence

She Thought, He Thought. full post

(155 words, estimated 37 secs reading time)

How Hurt Can Be Missed.

I want to call you

on the telephone, I miss

feeling inferior in your presence

and how you have that certain way

of making me foolish, uncared for,

a down and out punch bag

and the emotional wreck with scars

flowing with fresh blood, simple,

mine, closing my eyes and letting the pain

wash away. I feel the need to call upon you

so that I can feel deserted

and frightened,

alone and unwashed,

so that I can feel something,

so that I can hurt myself today,

How Hurt Can Be Missed. full post

(119 words, estimated 29 secs reading time)

The Maltese Songbird.

The songbird’s influence

when voiced in misty breath,

covered in soft lapping oceans

and the salt air that surrounds

the island, yellow stoned, steeped

in history, steep to trace the steps

that lead on high to a safe harbour

in a paradise, that voice, haunting,

exotic and beautifully feminine,

captures my soul

as I listen entranced, as I read

rapt and spellbound;

there is after all

a voice in the blue aquatic sea

that sounds a perfect pitch bell

of the divine and sultry

The Maltese Songbird. full post

(98 words, estimated 24 secs reading time)

The Dream Of The Forgotten Scribe.

I dreamt of you, scenic beauty

and waterfall thunder, I dreamt

of you and the forest clearing

in which you beckoned

me to explore, nature blossoming

to the sound of a pair

of butterfly wings beating

softly and in time with my own

enslaved heart, the scribe

never forgets the Queen

of Pharaoh Isle

and the image of her warm heart

in colour laden dreams as

she destroyed the scribe

time and time again,

the scribe always smiles

at the memory with

certain youthful pleasure.

The Dream Of The Forgotten Scribe. full post

(92 words, estimated 22 secs reading time)

The Needle And The Sword.

I went away to find myself, no map,

no compass or recollection of what I was

once, what I was failing to be, what I had allowed

to be said without my lips moving,

shut up, lips stitched, lips sewn together

and yet they were moved, like a clever ventriloquist

making a stuffed overweight toy talk;

yet my fluff had started to come apart,

the stitching holding me together

coming apart at the seams…

 

I went away to get re-stitched,

to get myself back in mental shape,

The Needle And The Sword. full post

(132 words, estimated 32 secs reading time)

The Time And The Sea.

The sea will always wash away at the rock,

slowly, surely, as tic follows tock

and Time is patient, it will erase

all, one sediment speck at a time,

for Time is all that Time has

and its only ally is the sea,

the promise in crested waves

that gradually flicks dust off the face

and replaces it with the start of a hole,

miniature, insignificant and just like a quandary

in which doing the right thing costs you,

so too does Time and the sea, both

The Time And The Sea. full post

(133 words, estimated 32 secs reading time)