poems

An Early Date

A cornflower sky
littered haphazardly
with spluttering wispy pearls
housing an effortless sun
watched over us
as we dangled and dropped
twigs of beech, ash and elm
into the dawdling waters below
our knees planted
porous
on the sandstone bridge
absorbing some of its history
our eyes followed
the branches ferrying
along the river
stroking and slapping
against limestone and basalt
we were quiet and thoughtful
wondering where they’d end up
wondering where we’d end up
and although sometimes
silence can be deafening
on that day
the silent moments we shared
only spoke of our serenity
with each other.

Like the river
we’ll continue our meander.

Sports Mixture & The Sun

I was 11 years old
buying the Sun
on behalf of my Dad
anticipating
50p worth of sports mixture
with the change

a boy
i recognise
my sister’s age
7 years old
trying to buy
20 Silk Cut and 2 litres of Cider
for his Dad
struggling
under the weight
of expectation

a man 40ish years old
trying to provide
for his family of 6
a newsagent,eager to please his patrons
to be welcomed
into the arms of the community
his journey long
from Bangladesh to Britain
via marriage and military service
looking a blend of bemusement and sadness
at the boy trying to buy
cigarettes and alcohol
who he turns away from his counter

50-ish years old
reeking of addiction
to tabs and cheap booze
he storms the shop
firing slurred slow
deliberate insults
and asking
“do you know who i am“
irked by the response of
“yes a thug and a bad father, we dont sell alcohol and tobacco to children“
it was then I witnessed
racism first hand
shock absorbed
in my young brain
stood like a hostage
the tirade continued
the threat of a firebomb
to the newsagent
and his family
the smell eventually leaving
when he couldn’t achieve his demands

me, a boy of 11
buying the Sun
and 50p worth of sports mixture
with the change
apologising
for someone else’s actions
that I didn’t understand
receiving a wink and a sad smile
I ran home
to deliver the newspaper
and the news of what happened
to my Dad

My Dad
mid-30’s
a butcher by trade
the sight of violence and blood
known to him
sat stoically on the sofa
listening to my recap of events
crinkling the pages
between fingers
stained with ink of
yesterday’s news
providing words of wisdom
“Cowards make threats, proper men keep promises”
followed by
“can I have a couple of sports mixture“
I gave him the bag.

————-

This poem is based on a shocking morning trip to the Newsagent just around the corner from our house.

Most of the time there was a real togetherness in our council estate, but on rare occasions, a sinister underbelly came to the fore.

Thanks for reading, I’d love to know your thoughts,

Paul

Chimneys – A Haiku

indigo darkness
marauding across rooftops
chimneys breathe heavy

Here’s a little Monday evening haiku. The nights are setting in quickly now in Newcastle with some lovely shades of colour among the blackened blue.

Why not check some of my other writing while your here.

I love reading your feedback.

Take it easy.

Paul.

Time Travel

Taking a carefree stroll
through an inviting burrow
of oak, ash, cedar, elm and yew
I allow myself
to talk to the trees
and travel through time
the history stored
in trunks and roots
is phenomenal
whispered secrets
shared by the world
filtered through canopies
of bronze, emeralds and golds
could fill all the libraries
in all the world
woodland sentinels
silently observing
passers-by
witnessing the same
litany of mistakes
made by multiple generations
the main one being
that your present
is already your past
and the future is now.

This is something I’ve learned
by talking to trees
while travelling through time.

I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this poem, inspired by wandering in the woods and listening. I’d love to know your thoughts.

Can’t See Her Cry

She’s grateful
her kids are away
at their dad’s
for the weekend
she likes quiet
when she’s thinking
she doesn’t miss
the boiler’s hum
she wraps up
warm under
two layers of clothing
waning woollen sleeves
try to keep
the cold at bay
saving the £2.31
that’s left
of the emergency fiver
on the electric meter
she’ll dine well
she lies to herself
calling her
Chicken & Mushroom Pot Noodle
a takeaway
technically
it’s a withdrawal
from the food bank
she used to make deposits into
her account there
now in negative balance
the only levelling up
she ever witnesses
is the poverty
and the ‘isms’
fuelled by the rich
to stoke fires
in the poor.

She’s grateful
her kids are away
so they can’t see her cry.