Tag Archives: poetry from Liverpool

Death By Bow.

…and there is no grand gesture of acknowledging the audience’s applause

as the violinist stands perfectly still, watching,

waiting,

for the small, unseen blazing wink

that tells her to slowly, without mercy, break some hearts.

It matters not at all, what the violinist wears, for the assassin’s bow

gently pierces the skin and boils the blood of the victim

and she slowly places the breathe

in play in which the body can bear no longer, the beauty contained within.

The long drawn out note, the gentle scream that drives me mad

Death By Bow. full post

(308 words, estimated 1:14 mins reading time)

I Have Reached The Age…My Sweet George.

I have reached the age in which the first man who made me laugh out loud,

who gave blood, sweat and tears in an effort to defy the wind,

and who by the time I was 14, could quote line for line

in an effort to be allowed to study drama at school,

decided enough was enough,

and wrote, “Things just seemed to go wrong too many times.”,

and took the next boat out to the onward great adventure.

 

I have reached the age in which twin greats to music were lost

I Have Reached The Age…My Sweet George. full post

(411 words, estimated 1:39 mins reading time)

Sunday Afternoon With A Minstrel.

The minstrel, once wandering upon many high seas,

now happy in contentment, leans over to hear the pleas

and thank you’s for bringing Neil Sedaka to life

upon a Sunday afternoon for the city and its colourful wife.

 

It’s the richness of the voice, the sadness in the detail

and the desire to bring some freshness to what else the month makes stale.

The delicate sound of a raindrop pouring on silk is full of love,

tickles the ears and brings praise to the lord of the voicebox from up above.

Sunday Afternoon With A Minstrel. full post

(177 words, estimated 42 secs reading time)

The Slow Death Of The Typewriter.

Who would be a poet, writer or scribe in the modern world?

How much more exciting and soul destroying

it must have been in days when Kerouac could slump over a typewriter

and bang his head in withdrawn frustration

on the polished and

d

e

n

t

e

d

desk.

The pile of A4 paper to his left , ever dwindling, never being pregnant with word

upon word, upon life sentence, instead cluttering up the floor

in a moon scarred landscape that defeats the purpose

The Slow Death Of The Typewriter. full post

(420 words, estimated 1:41 mins reading time)

When The Poet From Marsden Spoke, I Thought Of You.

As I watched the youthful sounding Yorkshire Poet

on stage in the furthest outpost that Lancashire once provided

but its self the gateway to boundless enthusiasm

and the cradle of civilisation in the wild, tempting lands,

I thought of you.

 

My stirred thoughts crammed with metaphor, with simile and symbolism,

the passion of friendship that flowed in the duck shaped earphones you

handed over with smiling mocking bow on my fortieth birthday

and the thank you that passes between us when needing

to crib from each other’s notes.

 

When The Poet From Marsden Spoke, I Thought Of You. full post

(268 words, estimated 1:04 mins reading time)

The Fog Of Silk.

She exhaled her smooth silk smoke over me and I lost my way

in a fog, a haze of riches of electric touch upon

the one crumpled silk stocking she was wearing and I remained

there for several nights.

The distant sound of a saxophone beating against the lips of a master

as she asked me time and time again, whether sugar, was I alright?

I told her she was fine, it was me I worried about and the stinking sleepness

I felt as the bed heaved and swallowed and caught my breath and

The Fog Of Silk. full post

(562 words, estimated 2:15 mins reading time)

The Goose That Died On Animal Farm.

How much more entertaining

to slowly the strangle the sleepless Goose

that laid Golden Eggs, than to remove its head

from its neck and find the plump belly only contains

unspent grit and the remains of the previous day’s feed.

 

By placing an ever tighter grip with one hand

around the stout, formally resolute bird’s feathery neck,

and in the other

the sense of the caring fatherly figure protecting the Goose

from the ravenous wolf, forever telling the scared bird stories

of wolves and fox with mange in their fur and steel

The Goose That Died On Animal Farm. full post

(219 words, estimated 53 secs reading time)

A Sonnet For Those That Wish You Ill.

I would write a sonnet just for you,

something comparing roses to your sweet breath

or the clouds in the sky, anything to hide a solitary clue

of how you wish me nothing but ill-fortune and possible death.

 

I hold a candle for you at all times of the day and night.

The wax cascading down, tear by tear

and soon snuffing out eventually your guiding eternal light

as the days turn to months and finally a goodbye to the year.

 

Oh I wish I could say I still miss the way you were

A Sonnet For Those That Wish You Ill. full post

(149 words, estimated 36 secs reading time)

Dinosaur Deniers.

The dinosaur presented to you this evening

has had the most awful of press.

Uncaring, even abusive towards its young,

beast like, carnivorous and rotten I stress;

A constant whimper in the Universe and one that destroyed

its home and yet was capable of inspiring us to greater thought

and to whom even now after all scientific data has been agreed upon

sees Dinosaur deniers take paleontologists  to court.

 

“We shouldn’t teach our young about these absurd creatures” they decry

they try to denounce the dinosaur as an evil spread by science

Dinosaur Deniers. full post

(264 words, estimated 1:03 mins reading time)

Sentenced To Life.

You were the thrill of a childhood wrapped in sickness.

Months of endless childhood complaint

in which the hero and heroine captivated me and in which an adventure

was of my own undertaking.

A bout of Bronchitis, battled on one side like a punch bag

with its stuffing flowing out onto the cold gymnasium floor,

the victor raising his hands in mocking tones

high above my head and placing the sickly taste of camphor oil

on harsh felt pillow and scratchy woollen blankets and taunting me

with the knowledge that as I grew older I would not

Sentenced To Life. full post

(359 words, estimated 1:26 mins reading time)