Archives for posts with tag: Poetry

Take the tram to town –
A pierced girl stands by the door ~
She’s reading Homer. 

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Many years away –
Henshin Robo, randomly ~
Waiting there for me…

‘Planes land and take off –
With millions of stories ~
Bringing people home. 

Our turret rotates –
Languidly, in evensong ~
Big gun, balls of steel.

All of these poems –
Arrive, fully formed, written ~
Without editing.

Fabulous
Rational
Enquiring
Youthful
Joyful
Angel

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Image credit Ms Maye.

Listen to Godflesh –
Last bus ~ fits in with the book –
Taliban poems.

A planet with six seasons.

Cycles.

How will I imagine you?

Thaw
Warmth
Calm, how we lie languid and calm ~
Wind
Storms
Frost

…Thaw…

The possibilities.

How we lie stretched, languid and calm.

Planets with their seasons.

A planet with six seasons.

I used to write poems by hand
Scrawls within a little black book
Instant – no editing
No need for that now, still instant
but digital, on phone, tablet, laptop

I used to write poems by hand
a drunk spider, fallen into an inkwell
and let loose across the page
no need for him now, tapa, tapa, tapa

I used to write poems by hand
Much longer, with words like ‘I’ , ‘me’ , ‘my’
No need for those now, not so much ~
The brevity and clarity of Haiku

I sh/could write poems by hand
and in ways this is more honest
No I’m not texting, or liking, or updating
I’m writing, or trying to write
and there is a difference
and I wrote this by hand.

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We might say ‘Gratitude’ –
We might have occasion to say thanks, often we have occasion to say thanks, but we don’t.
Thanks to first responders, thanks to off-duty officers who lend a hand, thanks to those who strip their sweaty shirt off and save a limb because some asshole has put nails and ball bearings in a bomb that is indiscriminate and aimed low.
Gratitude to those in uniform who do their job. They have seen this before in other lands, many, many times.

Nails. For fuck’s sake.
Someone else once conquered the Evil of The Nail.
Ball bearings, for fuck’s sake.
They should be marbles, not life changing projectiles.

The bomber was once a child.
Maybe they painted pictures.
Or maybe they weren’t allowed to paint, weren’t allowed pictures.

Everyone recorded this.
Everyone felt odd about ‘liking’ any comment on this.

Don’t stop running.
Don’t stop meeting in crowds.
Don’t stop feeling free.
Don’t let the bastards make you change how you live your life.
Don’t be a slave to fear.

There is no greater honour than to die as a free man. There is no greater power than Love.

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