Poem Published in Stymie!!!

Just a quick post to say that I had a poem that has been published in Stymie Online Journal.

The poem is called Small Hall Wrestling and is based on a time I went to see a small wrestling promotion at a sports hall when I was younger.

If you want to check it out, see the below link:

http://www.stymiemag.org/2021/01/small-hall-wrestling.html?m=1

Hope you like it.

Take it easy

Paul

Looking Through The Window

On Wednesday morning
with my eyes closed
I looked through the window
and listened –  to –
the natural percussion
of pouring rain
drumming
against mottled flagstones
creating a cacophony of calm
in the storm of my mind
not quite serenity
but not far off.

I hoped you enjoyed reading this poem. Feel free to have a look at my other work or leave a comment if you wish.

Take It Easy

Paul

December Nights

finding comfort 
in a chunky knit sweater
and sherpa-lined socks
hands clasped around my favourite mug
the steamy scent of hot ginger wine
waltzing in the air
with the aroma of an oud wood candle
while the crackle of beechwood
burning on the tv
soothes selflessly
the hardest choice I have
is deciding what book to get lost in.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this poem.

Paul

The Display

remember that time you had fun
watching the fireworks fly
rivers of light flowing across the sky
whilst a tower of kindling burned nearby
well aware the scent would wrap around your clothes
inhaling the ashen smoke through a crimpled nose
sipping hot chocolate
with friends by your side
watching people queue
to gorge on something fried
those were great times
and the photos we captured
show sincere elation
like the one that caught you laughing
when someone shrieked at the shrill
of a rocket in ascent
an excitable reaction that you’ll never forget
and the time you wrote expletives
with a sparkler in the air
and people were frowning and you didn’t care
but now you’ve joined a group on Facebook
whose culture is to cancel and signal their virtue
I know this is a display
and I’m really sorry for you
that you’d rather be passive and see the world in grey and beige
than admire the spectrum free of echoed rage
banning the possibility of fun
when you’ve already flew close to the sun
and enjoyed the inferno on your face
is a bit of a hypocritical disgrace.

It was you who once told me
the reason why fireworks will always be fun
and bonfires welcome
is what they represent
the overthrow of control
by those who have been oppressed
so rather than call for a blanket ban
add some fuel to the fire
and inhale the memories of fun
washed in smoke.

Thanks for taking the time to read this poem inspired by the rise of cancel culture and hypocrisy.

(Image adapted from Jamie Street via Unsplash)

A Lesson in Falling

In my younger years
i was always afraid
of falling down
but fear has been replaced
with a potent intoxicating euphoria
when this planetary mass of mine
descends with thunderous precision
or occasional feather-light bedlam
when cloth & skin & flesh
encounter earth
i revel in the writhing of
reverting to verticality
safe in the knowledge that
any bloomed bruises or scratched skin
will heal
but i’ll still wear them
crystalline merits of resilience
because
the euphoria of falling is fleeting
it’s the rising up
i always remember.

Thanks for taking the time to read my poem, feel free to have a look around the rest of my site.

(Image courtesy Canva)

Sunday morning rituals

of filter coffee and croissants warm and buttery
lazily absorbing Saturday’s news through inked fingers and papercuts
whilst audibly inhaling songs from the twentieth century
we wear chunky scratching knits
and chunkier cotton socks that fill
well worn walking shoes
with rusted suede uppers
we fill noisy metal bottles
with water filtered through plastic beads
then tightly pack them into
a roll away backpack
awaiting adventure
that beckons from paths littered with burnt leaves
and forest floor detritus
our casual meandering scored with the sound
of mulching mud under rubber soles
the scurry of squirrels and swaying branches
memories made and recorded in 16:9 high definition
then the return voyage home
in time to prep a veritable feast
but that’s a ritual, i’ll keep to myself.

Thanks for taking your time to read this poem. I love hearing your thoughts and any feedback you may have.

(Image: taken from Canva)

Crimson Treacle

she wears a noose of silver
around her throat
St. Christopher lays flat
feigning protection

the blood on her chin
cloys like syrup
but her tongue
tastes like rust and copper

she exhales pleasure
sensually chewing
torn tendons and soft flesh
against carefully crafted teeth

arrogantly
she smirks
allowing more treacle to comfort her chin
gargling on voracious words
‘if he had a silver noose around his neck
he may have survived remained intact, but doubtful’

muscle memory
precise and purposeful
dismembers her lust
as she dismembers and disembowels

she showers
in his carotid crimson treacle
relishing the flavour and feel
as she splits sinew and bone
feeling righteous purity

the crescendo of violence
always anticlimactic
plastic wrapped bundles of body and tissue
a food parcel to sate her appetite
a bitter sense of home economics

she returns to her disguise
adorning a lambswool cardigan and skirt
once more ready
for the world to see her
as it always will
meek and vulnerable

she looks up to the moon proudly
graciously thanking her for her gifts
her burgeoning entropy
the as yet diagnosed
clinical lycanthropy.

This is my first attempt at writing a horror poem. I’d love to know what you think.

(Photo Credit: Canva)