Tag Archives: poetry from Liverpool

The Woman Of The Century.

Grace Kelly always looked so demure

when photographed in black and white,

in sepia too she looked so cool,

the perfect face to fall desperately in love with,

the woman into which dreams fall and fail.

 

Yet in colour, you are reminded of the fragility

of beauty worn, of timeless vulnerability

and the crumble down effect

of pancake dish upholstery

served up in glorious Technicolour

and stereo fitted sound.

 

The woman of the century, the great

unknown of the silver screen,

radiantly stares from lofty heights

The Woman Of The Century. full post

(126 words, estimated 30 secs reading time)

Do Not Mourn For The Wasp.

A dead wasp’s carcass,

half chewed by wind,

half spat out with ferocious intent

by the earthbound ants

that plough tunnels underneath the street

which one day will cause the turn of the century

houses to cave in and be swallowed whole

by the teeming mass,

lays rotting in a puddle,

its wings now no more than show pieces

to a time when it lorded over all.

 

Do not mourn the wasp,

it is nothing more than the Luftwaffe

in insect form and the ants

Do Not Mourn For The Wasp. full post

(149 words, estimated 36 secs reading time)

Five Rivers.

I probably will not ever return

to the place where five rivers meet

and that may mean I will not see your face

again, other than through the odd text,

or family updated picture, or should you travel

north to see me; when your life is complex

and comfortable, why would you waste time

leaving the valley in which we once roamed.

 

The rivers roll on with majesty

and I have sat by many a bank,

the tumble down grass, tumbled down upon

Five Rivers. full post

(191 words, estimated 46 secs reading time)

An Adoration Of Knotweed And Roses.

The love inside will always burn brightly

even for the weed that has replaced the blooming flower

as it creeps up against the wall tightly,

for even the sickly green of knot weed has illuminating power.

The adoration of things turned sour,

the memory of the good that came before,

that hide in reflection as they cower

before the boom and bust of relationship law.

Yet I hold the memory of you dearly,

I cradle it like a child, in innocent wonder

and whisper, cajole it to stay alive, to breathe.

An Adoration Of Knotweed And Roses. full post

(126 words, estimated 30 secs reading time)

The Circus Is In Town.

The circus is in town.

The ring leaders

for the next ten months

will provide the illusion that a two

way ring can bring the hero

of the hour, the usual suspect

who can reach the converted

and pull off cunning stunts

in the swinging trapeze

but to whom over thirty states

will always suggest that their clown

is always the guy they choose.

 

From Iowa to Texas to New York,

the circus only exists because

the land is so vast and the land is arid

The Circus Is In Town. full post

(158 words, estimated 38 secs reading time)

You Must Feel A Certain Degree Of Pride…

I have had bad days, when my words

have been misinterpreted, my actions

mistaken, my shame and hatred

of my own self carried around for ever

after, pinned to my chest

like a gleaming medal sparkling

on parade, polished with pride

by some other shmuck in my skin

and specially made

for the stupid, crass,

ignorant and argumentatively

stubborn. I have been all that at times.

 

I have kicked downwards when pain

was bad but I have also kicked upwards

when the ache threatened to send me over,

You Must Feel A Certain Degree Of Pride… full post

(184 words, estimated 44 secs reading time)

Oribital Struggle.

I let time run down on the day,

for the Moon requires

a period of mournful solace

at the passing of the ignorant Sun.

 

Shrouded in black, making sad overtures

to the recently deceased

and wringing hands in public,

the Moon acts accordingly

in the night time sky

as it basks it relative heartache

and symbolic woe, the stars

unaware of how glad the Moon

is to see the back of the Sun.

 

The night claims the power

over tide and dominates

Oribital Struggle. full post

(156 words, estimated 37 secs reading time)

Gravy Boats And Dish.

Tell me your tale

of what it meant to venture

out in the dark

and hang with the kids who smoked

and looked cool as the whisper of ash

mixed freely

in the stilted and peach like air

and then glided towards

the beckoning heavens

as your eyes naturally found the excuse

to drift slowly downwards

and look at the black tram seam

that ran from the top of their

unpolished and ungainly shoes

to the bottom of the pencil

lined grey skirt,

Gravy Boats And Dish. full post

(157 words, estimated 38 secs reading time)

The Nerve…

Steady,

breathe deeply,

hold your nerve

and dive right in…

 

For whilst it was the most ungainly

entry into the wet,

shivering warmth,

I at least gave it a go

and the laughter of two

hundred, the attempt of early

humiliation was nothing, for

only having learned to swim

at ten, twenty lengths for a charity

later, diving in the deep end

held no fear and whilst failure

was the option grasped,

scoring one

point for the class,

out of sympathy,

The Nerve… full post

(102 words, estimated 24 secs reading time)

The Crack Is Always There.

The crack is always there,

no matter how busy I keep myself,

the yawn in the fabric

of the walls leers at me,

sneers with contempt;

it has no need to beckon me closer

for it knows I will eventually succumb

because I am always curious

of just how dark the scene is.

 

I could scream in the darkness

for no one truly hears

above the muffled, stifled gag

as the words catch me

in the back of the throat,

so instead I hide myself away,

The Crack Is Always There. full post

(166 words, estimated 40 secs reading time)