I write in the margins because I used to live there an oddity, an anomaly, a correction wasting valuable space on the page until the margins became too tight to breathe in too tight to survive in so I leaked into the rest of the page sharing my words with others finding friendship and love.
I write in the margins because the margins made me.
Thanks for taking time to read my poem. I hope you enjoyed. Why not take time to read some of my other pieces?
I have been lucky to be selected to be published in the Daily Drunk for my poem ‘The Off-Vengers’. It’s a poem based on if the characters from The US Office were cast in the roles of some of The Avengers.
and the spectrum of flickering flames and hot embers
because I’ve always loved
dancing in the fire.
Thanks for taking the time to read my poem, originally wrote as part of #TopTweetTuesday on twitter, this is a farewell to Summer and a warm welcome to Autumn. Please feel free to leave a comment if you liked it or have any constructive critique.
I stopped watching the news after the third week of decimating death and morbid press briefings it had become statistically gratuitous
instead, I watched the playing fields opposite the front door start to overgrow welcoming back the wild things –
discarded council lawns no longer littered by kids from the secondary school and couples walking their dogs –
I observed the radiant whimsy in a family of deer frivolous in the pre-dawn haze dancing among the tall grass rose-gold fur in soft focus
impressive were the foxes drifting around the wildflower verges almost hidden in the dusky milk-light gorging on the rodents next-doors cat couldn’t catch
I chuckled at lopping chestnut-hares darting among the hedgerow scaring the bullfinches from the rosehips and brambles
until now I never really appreciated the nurturing noises of nature notably the cresting and chirruping birdsong against the percussive branches of council-planted beech trees
ever since opening the door to the nurture of nature
– life feels gratuitous.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem, written about something positive that happened during the peak of Corona in the UK. I hope you enjoyed. As always,feel free to leave a comment I love reading and replying.
There it is again that distant gaze powerful, it pierces faraway sandstorms looking for the memory of where that long lost piece of you may be buried and the Afghan sun can’t even burn your eyes because you’ve stared so long, so often.
That subtle curl of lip and your eyes wander softly back in to the room amongst the lads, lagers and a few over-under dressed lasses.
There’s no sand here and you know the rain is always close-by – like us – we just hope we can help to find you some hard-earned peace.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem. It’s dedicated to my friends who’ve spent time fighting for the country on faraway shores.
One evening in the Scottish Borders during a break away with youth club when the air was glue-thick and soup-warm and the sky bruised purple-black
we sat telling ghost stories – not scary in the slightest – while the youth workers and chaperones drank cheap lambrusco from mugs until we witnessed the awesome temper of the sky as death-white splinters thrashed from cloud to meadow cracks booming louder than screams of tweens and young teens most of the lads and lasses ran for shelter in the bunkhouse sharing safety in numbers and the comfort of cuddles from terrified friends.
I stayed out until the last of us were told to go in – once the adults had took the last long draws of their roll-ups and regal king-size so i went and watched by the window mesmerised in the maelstrom of pines and ferns getting whipped in the nearby wood.
It took me a while to hear a young lass screaming and shrilling ‘we’re all gonna die’ repeatedly between sobs and falling tears as heavy as the rain outside I felt bad for enjoying myself while she was terrified.
One of the older lads said we’d all look after her and that – or the storebrand ovaltine the youth leader made – seemed to calm her to sleep and, as the thunder rolled back the bruised horizon gave way to star-flecked inky skies and a pure pearl moon she slumbered soundly while we told tales of nature some more scary than others.
Thanks for taking the time to read ‘Thunderstruck’. I hope you enjoyed it. While you’re here, feel free to check out some of my other work.
I remember how my hand fit into yours with welcoming ease and the warmth of your skin heated my tepid fingers as we walked along the beach
the North Sea was trembling with chilling intensity – as we skimmed stones plucked fresh from champagne-gold sand they wisped over waves their light friction warming the water and calming the sea
I told a joke about blushing lobsters and seaweed you laughed because it was so bad and the frame of your face lit up the dusky sky better than the distant hilltop fire beacons could ever hope to
I’m hoping this has all has gone to plan – that some years have passed – and our hands still fit each others that the message I buried in this bottle is not lost to the tide like so many other romances and we’re reading this in the spot where we sat and snuggled that night stargazing at the peach-kissed setting sun on the horizon
– because I know that I will love you forever.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem dedicated to my beautiful wife, Christine.
Opportunity rasped repeatedly at my door knuckles bloodied, bruised and broken until they were incapable of knocking again I chose to open up once silence fell with head bowed I took it’s palms in mine and healed sores with words ‘Why didn’t you answer ?‘ Opportunity asked and in my mind the truth was told – ‘there are far more deserving than I‘.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem. I hope you enjoyed it. If opportunity knocks, always answer because it may take you to places you could only dream about.
I remember the things I learned watching Grandstand on Saturday afternoons at my Great Grandad’s house like the rules of snooker, darts and horse racing how to pick a winning horse out the newspaper (look at the jockey) sound like Woody the Woodpecker how to use a mangle to dry out clothes still steaming from the old washing machine I found that snuff tobacco was minty and cured a sniffle that I preferred my squash diluted and scotch eggs and ‘black bullets‘ are the food of kings The most important thing he taught me and many others – was kindness.
Although Grandstand Saturdays came to an end I still keep what I learnt sacred in my mind and heart except the food I eat that.
Thanks for taking the time to read my poem. A little letter to my Great Grandad who used to have me round when I was a kid.