My Poetry

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Moon Visit

…and the music plays, and notes become words and words become soniferous joy beyond all, even in the quiet places between all the noise and the fullness of Time which tick tocks fatly, wholesome and round in space circling moons and stars, flying, defying its size through the vacuum, not feeling the cold until finally Time chimes midnight…and the owl hoots its tattoo, and the mouse reappears from inside the clock with a large piece of cheese it stole from the waning moon…

Digital

I have made their pictures digital now,

So, when my laptop is left,

Images of my parents and childhood

Spring into technicolour life.

Slideshowing, sweeping across my screen,

Backlit. Places and people.

So many strangers,

Places I don’t know.

Who are they, looking at me in twinsets and pearls?

The man in the boat with Mum?

She’s laughing, that familiar head thrown back smile

I can almost hear it. Her wavy hair whipped by the wind.

He, with his jumper and strong jaw

Looking straight at camera. Like an old school movie star.

Did my Dad take the photo or someone else?

Who is he?

Out at sea, my Dad didn’t travel well.

Only the horizon in view

No life jackets.

Laughing, confidently.

Home

When I went home

it was to the hills.

Rumbling and tumbling

green and brown.

A quilt of texture

heather and gorse.

Wild grasses blowing

The ashes of my father.

To the westerly wind

Long Mynd.

In glinting evening light

a kestrel overhead eyes prey.

Dipping and rising with the thermal

the very tops of the world.

Home.

Everything is Fine

‘Fuck the world!’

Bad scientist say,

I’m sweet.

Big Corp pays.

I can lie…

in my bed and sleep,

dreaming of dollars

and deceit.

I don’t care,

if the pollinators drop

from the sky

on the crops

paralysed and dead

in the fields.

I don’t give a…

My moneys in my pocket.

My life rocks.

One small lie

Neonics are harmless.

Everything is fine.

White Vans

The white vans

Travel relentlessly around,

My suburban kingdom.

Carrying packages of want

And need for all the people,

Trapped in their houses.

The white vans

With drivers endlessly

On rounds, late and hasty.

Chucking boxes in porches

And playing knock-door-run

With expectant consumers.

The white vans

Filled with cardboard and greed.

Laptop warriors fulfilling their need.

Trapped in a circle of buy-

More-get-more-shop-more-

buy-more indulgent insatiability.

The white vans

Chariots of materialism.

Driven by zero-hour contracts.

Who can’t afford a single thing,

Inside their glory hole of

Acquisition.

Hands Before Eyes

Hands before eyes

Into bag

Spilit carton

Yoghurt cherry delight

Under nails

Stained sleeves

Pink glorious

Not what you need

Hands before eyes

Into pocket

A lid loose on Lypsyl

A greasy unwelcome

Not on lips

On fingertips

Curious digits

Take more care

Hands before eyes

Adventures fair

I don’t write about my daughters

I don’t write about my daughters,

They’re curious and bright.

They inspire my poems.

They make dark days light.

They stop me slipping into

A world of self-reverie.

I don’t write about my daughters,

Their stars shine, fires ignite.

They’re fresh and new,

The world is in their sights.

What they may do is

Amazing to me

But, Oh my gosh,

I wouldn’t want to be,

The person who tries to stop

Their juggernaut of might.

I don’t write about my daughters,

How proud I am,

Of their successes.

Creative magical creatures,

I can’t believe they grew in me.

Independent fierce impressive.

My daughters, my loves, my totality.

The Song of the Broken Heart

Deep inside the crevices of the broken heart,

there is cracked glass and darkness.

Not a single chink of light,

just the bass thumping, jumping, a tattoo.

The rhythm of the broken heart.

In the mirror, the face skewed in despair.

Looks at eyes filled, red-ringed.

Mascara leaves slug trails,

Along rosacea skin, mouth wet,

nose dribbling. A low-pitched wail, the chord

The music of the broken heart.

The sudden empty bed.

Turning whirring, mind tickling sleep.

Drifting in and out, but the cacophony

of acoustic twangs, strum and tinker

the ache, the insomnia.

The twang, the chord, the bass.

The song of the broken heart.

Cucumber

Mind swirls fill the air above,

your head puffs, whilst thinking of salad,

in clouds and water

precipitating pit pat splosh!

Below, up turned umbrellas

ready to catch the drips like

saucers full of milk.

Cats try to return the umbrellas to hemispherical

correctness because they hate

up turned umbrellas and cucumbers most.

We’ve all seen the social media clips –

The cat’s fur, up ended on tip toes, back arched,

escaping their nemesis – sideways.

The cucumber - the worst kind of foe.

Outdated

She turned the record over,

the familiar clunk fuzz as the needle

tip toes across the grooves.

Vinyl, jet black spinning,

absorbing light like a black hole.

No dancing or she’ll scratch it,

the floorboards bouncing –

It’s too late for Purple Rain.

The doves are crying and
Nikki is mast…ing in the

Hot…lob with a zine.

She should replace it,

but it reminds her of her teens.

She binned all the mixtapes,

boyfriends made.

Mostly melted or squirming

like worms pulled from

cassette tapes ejected out of

car stereos too fast.

You’re my Bitch – Or an Ode to Depression

Like the sun you're always there.
Like a friend with a gun, you just don't care.
Like the worst pun or an unholy nun,
You're a bitch and a dare.

You're the stream that turns to flood.
You're the thoughts that make my mind mud.
You're the babbling brook in my head.
You're a bitch and a tear.

I stilled you
I calmed you
I took you down
With Prozac and talking
And time after time.

You have taken the years
And the years and the years
And my tears and the years
With your chatter in my head

But now, you're not on the list
So you're not getting in
You're wearing trainers, you're obviously pissed.
You're my bitch now. You won't be missed.

You're my bitch.

Wonder Woman

I want to be Wonder Woman

I know I can’t

I cannot summon

The power of the Gods

I want to be Super Sonic

I know I can’t

I’m not bionic

I have no mods

I want to be strong like Kong

I know I can’t

I haven’t been to the Gym for so long

I’m not wrong

But

I am a strong woman

I am more than human

I am filled with wonder

That no one can pull asunder

My mind is supersonic

My rhyme harmonic

Who needs the power of the Gods?

I hear they are all sods.

I have the power of me

You see

Giggle me

Giggle me timbers

A pirate’s life for me

Off to the high seas

With a slap of my knee

Or is that panto?

Am I buttons or the prince?

A girl in boys clothing

A missing link

Inhibitors

Mood inhibitors

Vitriol collaborators

Smoothing contaminators

Shiny bright

But not new

Old and worm like

A brass statue touched much

Sunlight shows the hue

Mood inhibitors

Cold facilitators

Take you through

I am he

He is you

You is he

I am lost

Lost are you

You is lost

Lost is too

He is I

I is she

She is it

It is me

All is lost

Lost it too

A small poem for Lola

Soft soft go

Float float no

Giggle giggle blow

And then the sink burped

Holding back the rain

I am holding back the rain

My hands are to my face

I am holding back the thunder

The tears are all in place

I am waiting for the pressure

To take me underneath

I am holding back the sun

My hands shade my eyes

I am holding back my feelings

I stroke my arm inside

I am waiting for the rage

To take me underneath

I am holding back the storm

My hands can’t stop it now

I am holding back the shame

Release all the screams and how

I am waiting for the peace

To take me underneath

My Joy

My joy is in my words

My joy is in the page

The expression it can give me

The expression that I gave

My joy is in my words

My joy is on the page

Transported to another place

Transported to a feeling that you slaved

My joy is in my words

My joy is on the page

The love I feel for comfort

The love that’s in your face

Is all need forever

My heart I gave

My Toes are Stout

My eyes are tired

My legs are fat

My belly wobbles

And my boobs lie flat

My arms are bingo winged

My bum sticks out

My fingers arthritic

And my toes are stout

My hair is grey

My nails crack

My cellulite has cellulite

And my stretch marks are stacked

My hips have rhythm

My back has fat

My jowls jiggle and scowl

And my knees snap

The gyms a distant memory

Dancing is a chore

A night on the town

Something I don’t do anymore

My humour buttons

Gone missing

I am grumpy through and through

I wish I was like new.

Tickity Tock Clock

Time moves us, tick tock

The clock doesn’t stop

Taxes and death no matter

What

What?

Time moves us, my skins getting thin

My clock, biological or not?

Stops or what

What?

Time moves us, my hair is grey

I can’t just say, I’m grumpy and hot

Or what

What?

Time moves me, my children are grown

My seeds are sown

My future is gone and the past

Is all I have left. a bit deaf

What

What?

The Visit (1)

The Visit ….happened

Only this time she was here to stay

Lets face it

She wasn’t going to go away

In mind. In spirit.

The dust settled

And grew and grew

Covering us from head to toe

Like ashes off the funeral fire

God it was dire

She’s moving in

She’s taking over

There is no smell of clover

But cloying false sentiment

So fake, makes hate

No brushing away of excess slough

No combing

Its off the cuff

Not allowed

To show the love we found

All must notice

All must see

The visitor is here to be

The Hill of Shame

Pink and blue

Satin and silk

Here I am at my mother’s milk

Full of pain, full of guilt

Full of fear, full of tears

How I wish I was young again.

The darkness of this sordid crime

Of lovers gone and dirty shine

Only the love of money made me stay

Only the love of milk and honey

And ambrosia on the hill of shame

How I wish I was young again

Apple sauce and banana skins

Dribble down my Winston’s chin

Dull and greying

Like an old wives saying

Or siren singing

How I wish I was young again

The feel of sealing wax

Slowly dripping upon the tax

Dribble and drabble, blending one

As rates and bills go and come

Get paid and again we go

How I wish I was young again

Parchment skin and wills all done

Feelings felt, thoughts begun

The dust, the shit, the bleeding sun

Make me wish that I was young

How I wish I was young again.

Tattooed Lady

Tattooed lady

Pierced tongue

Mohawk straight

Wearing lace

Not so young

As first look

A lot of make up took

Lady long time

Tattooed lady

Beginning to fade

No grace just haste

She doesn’t get laid

Accept an occasional

Circus freak Fuck

Alone in her one roomed flat

With her lace and her cat

Tattooed lady

Spent her life

Being different to that

She didn’t want

Trouble and strife

A wife’s life

How different is this

To blue rinse old lady

Alone in her flat

With her lace and her cat?

Plastic Mac Suicide

Plastic mac suicide

What do you know?

Why did she jump?

Nobody knows

Plastic mac suicide

What do you know?

It ran down the mac

In runnels so slow

Plastic mac suicide

What do you know?

It couldn’t be bloodier

If she’d slit her wrists…so…

Plastic mac suicide

Smack on the floor

Her body was mutilated

Her mind was a mess

She was more herself then

Than she was when she left

Numb

I turn to you in tenderness, you turn in passion

I offer everything, you feel nothing

You play with me, I hope for love

And when you’ve pulled me apart, you let go.

Oblivion is beautiful

If you can only find it

It’s a place where minds are numb

And emotion is forgotten.

And now that much time has passed

I like to think that I am wiser

But all I really am

Is a skin filled with blood, bones and water.

No Mercy

There are no more poems in me

They were there but now have; gone

They were there; when

My hair, flowed

My moods and boobs, swung

My head, ached

Late nights were, great

My body was, lean

My tongue, wagged

My lips and hips, kissed

My body, yearned

I popped and couldn’t eat, cake

I had a stash, got mashed

And I showed

No Mercy

There are no more poems in me

I definitely wanna eat, cake

My tongue is, schtum

My moods and boobs swing

Out of control

My head still, aches

I pop pain killers

Indigestion tablets

And self medicate

My body is comfortable

And my hair knows

No Mercy

Moto Heart

Moto moments

Miniscule happenings

Small stuff

Clogging up the

Big cogs

Small blocks

Making shapes and

Big bluff

Tick tock

Bump bump

Thump thump

Hello heart

I never noticed you

‘Till you stopped.

Incineration

At the bottom of a black bin, fat tin

Burning so hot, so hot no flames, to tame

Burning all the same, mixed and shredded.

Ashes

Like the old, crumbling outside, tired bones, inside

Passing through purple curtains

But the swan song is sung, and the mourning has begun.

Slow

Not so, canned and packed, sour meat bleeding

Ceremony discontinued like a soap opera slot

Sucked out, pressed in, sent off

Forgot.

At the bottom of a black bin, fat tin

No bones, blood and muscle unformed

Not born

No coffins that small

No room for headstones, or grief

The valley of death out of reach.

Cocktail

Bitter twisted an orange shake.

A cocktail or a vicious turn

For the worse

Is what he called me.

Cynical removed vodka without the bite

For life, cold as ice

Like a frosted over slice of strife

Is what he called me.

Knife in the gizzard a gruesome drink

Which left me over the kitchen sink

Your puke, you have no brain

Is what he called me.

He was like sweet cheap champagne

You think it’s nice, the bubbles drip

He slaps your face, calls you bitch

Is the last thing he called me.

When I was fifteen, I cut my own hair

I wore make up and didn’t care

When I was fifteen,

I stole, the heart

Of a boy, who was a man

Eighteen but a boy.

When I was fifteen, I knew my escape

Plan, I had to cram

I had to pass my exams

It was London for me

When I was 15 I knew everything

And nothing, my ambition was clear

It was black and white

The world and my Mum

Didn’t know

I was amazing, me

When I was fifteen

My girl is fifteen

She has cut her own hair

Wears make up, and doesn’t care

Whose heart she breaks

Before she escapes

Far away from me

She plans and crams

Ready for her exams

The world is grey, but she is clear

The world is just waiting

For her to be amazing

My girl is fifteen

Better than me

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