Tag Archives: poetry from Liverpool

From Foolish February To The Divinity Of May.

I have played many parts. The glove maker’s son

from Warwickshire suggested I should.

I have played the illusionist who laid upon the bed of nails

and who doted silently for his clown. I have played the clown

in the art of allusion, the fool, unseen like Lear’s imagination,

the part suiting me well; but thankfully, I never performed

a role like the court jester, slapping his masters on the back

but with the cunning engrained into the psychotic fancy to

remove a king from his throne or the down at heel

From Foolish February To The Divinity Of May. full post

(538 words, estimated 2:09 mins reading time)

The Tarnishing Of The Trumpet.

How is possible for the person who had the world at his feet,

the beckoning call of history call out with a flourish and fanfare

each time he raised his eyebrows and gave an opinion,

to fall so blindly, stupidly and recklessly low?

 

The flourished fanfare, now fading and sounding as if being delivered

by a midwife who has taken the job on,

not from duty or responsibility

but because she couldn’t get a job as a stripper or a walk on extra

in fashion shoot, her hands dirty, unsanitary and with the twisting

The Tarnishing Of The Trumpet. full post

(295 words, estimated 1:11 mins reading time)

Parity.

I am thankful that I can live in an age

where a woman can achieve so much

without it being thought of weird, against the grain or that

they somehow are inverted, aping their male counterparts,

not through their own actions but because the male brain

cannot cope without turning it into competition.

 

I am thankful, yet I have one eye on the past

where I remember feeling certainly sorry,

but more downright ashamed, that the girls were told they

couldn’t kick a ball and yet when we took them on at

Parity. full post

(274 words, estimated 1:06 mins reading time)

As Elusive As The Northern Lights.

Were the Northern Lights ever there in the great beyond?

I didn’t see them in the same way that I never heard you say

I love you, the emotional call of the union and bond,

the words that once lovers might say.

 

I saw Niagara Falls glisten in the fading light

and took solace in the embrace of its roar as it ravaged with thunder

in the darkness, yet I never saw you look more radiant or a captivating sight

on the evening you left me in the rain and cut me out from under.

As Elusive As The Northern Lights. full post

(163 words, estimated 39 secs reading time)

The Hyena Below.

They might look like big cats from way up here,

Kings of the jungle, the lords of all they survey,

a roar so loud that it can be heard across five miles of open

scrubland and all who perch by the dwindling pool,

sucking up

precious water, live in fear of the noise that travels far

and in terror of what lurks beneath the stillness.

 

They are not Kings, lords, unless of misrule,

they are though beasts, savage and bloodthirsty

cock-sure and baying for the blood of an innocent,

The Hyena Below. full post

(337 words, estimated 1:21 mins reading time)

Car Boot Sold.

The empty buildings that surround the concrete, hole encrusted

patch of ground, reflect thought of just how poor

the area has become.

The first great depression of the twenty-first century

claims all in this northern town by the Mersey

and the Sunday car boot sale, a few stalls and a van with steaming

piles of bacon, has become the highlight of the week for many.

 

It is the chance to meet up and sell the remains of a home,

a fractured mess in which no-one talks of

Car Boot Sold. full post

(557 words, estimated 2:14 mins reading time)

Sticks And Stones.

Would I dare believe they would contemplate

this cul de sac once more?

That I would be looking over my shoulder and listening on edge

for the sound of an alarm

and fear the general panic

of a population gripped in ice stone terror

and wondering just who

they would protect and survive.

 

Of course the idea the propagated

of hiding under doors is absurd,

it was only a practical way of burying the dead

and now they want us to learn D.I.Y. again

Sticks And Stones. full post

(320 words, estimated 1:17 mins reading time)

If He Is Not Yet Dead…

If he is not yet dead

then perhaps he might be better off being so,

for the passage of time ticks slowly in his direction.

Comforting words as the fate of his future is decided

in crumbling office blocks and in the same dusty relics

of men who plot and call coup

in a world of insane potential

and irrational market forces deliverance.

 

These same market forces that made him God,

now turn and bite their master of illusion

hard and nip, drawing blood, it dribbles waywardly

If He Is Not Yet Dead… full post

(349 words, estimated 1:24 mins reading time)

The Rainbow In My Tree.

If it helps you classify me, then by all means tie

an armband with a yellow star around my biceps

and shoot me down with a ravenous bully boy glee upon

your myopic thousand yard stare, which in reality matches the

colour of your eyes as they glaze over as I answer your questions

as I think of the day when I will forgive you.

 

It will burn you alive and if it helps in your suffering,

I shall wear armbands all the way down my naked torso

The Rainbow In My Tree. full post

(478 words, estimated 1:55 mins reading time)

Me, Myself And I And I And I.

I introduced the young twenty something to myself at seventeen

and for good measure, them both to me at thirty.

At forty-four I sat back and watched them try to make

small talk, idle chit chat, but not the hint of interrogation

that should be imagined when stuck in a room with your future at sixty,

pompous, arrogant, full of fear and trepidation,

and your ten year old self, who acts pretty much the same.

 

The glaring glances and accusing stares from the seventeen year old

Me, Myself And I And I And I. full post

(592 words, estimated 2:22 mins reading time)