the bronze leaves
are tenderly hurtling
to the forest floor
a patchwork quilt of
misfortune and malaise
sewn and laid
by rattling clunking gusts
the ash, beech and birch
succumb
to their own stark beauty
This poem was originally published on my Instagram/Twitter to celebrate National Poetry Day
Thanks for reading.
The encouragement
of an ochre sunrise
delivering the day
subtly and slowly
floods my soul
with the sensation
of contentment
the belief of opportunity
to live better than yesterday
to improve our world
through words and actions
loving more and loathing less
being kinder by choice
not necessity.
And when the lipstick sunset
kisses the sky
i want it to be with passionate pride
rather than pity and pain.
I hope you enjoyed reading this, if you did, you can check out my other pieces.
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.
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
velvet sand
tickling my back
blades of crystal water
cutting away doubt
driftwood logs
silently whispering sea shanties
a carefree horizon
casually glances
feeling content
as do I
a connection
with nature
always nurtures.
This is inspired by days spent on Northumbrian beaches, always serene.
early morning
with the light muted
the sky still
a patchwork of slate and coal
they set sail
favours asked
of Pontus & Poseidon
hoping they are heard
over the wailing gulls and terns
they yearn for a return
to bountiful days
and bulging nets
of catching shoals of silver
in their pastel gilnetter
on the North Sea
once brimming
with fish glistening
just below the surface
when the Captain and his Crew
were daring
wide eyed wanderers
braving thunderous waves
and caressing calm waters
beating their adversaries
to the best loot
today they’re older
grizzled and weather-worn
with eyes the colour of their quarry
wearing woollen hats and neon overalls
they only dare to dream
of a fair catch and a fairer price
hoping to stay afloat
in a sinking industry.
——————————————————-
This poem is inspired by the hardworking fishermen who work the North Sea. Once a booming industry in the North East, sadly it has declined over the past 20-30 years.
——————————————————-
I love hearing your thoughts or any feedback you may have.
we mourned all summer
when they decimated the woodland
murdered ash, oak, sycamore & beech
all in the pursuit of profit
the lives lost from the hedgerow
collateral damage to make capital gains
no concern for refugees
concrete foundations poisoned the rich earth
bracken & bleeding brambles scythed down
by strong yellow tanks
cheerful and bright grim reapers
sullying soil and sod
bricks, mortar, slate & glass
now occupying forces
and in final insult
they named the new avenues and boulevards
after the casualties they inflicted
not in memoriam
but as a warning
that in wars
between man and nature
man will win
because man’s nature is death.
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.
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.
I felt at home
in Copenhagen
at winter’s twilight
under the glow
of warm vintage lanterns
our breathing visible
through knitted woollen scarves
the air was kissed
with scents of
cinnamon, clove and citrus
the nearby sounds
of mirth and merriment
interspersed with delighted
roars and screams
from the roller-coasters above
warmth came
from holding your hand
and the chewy crunch
of sweet-spiced almonds
while opulent flakes of diamond snow
fell graciously
each one uniquely dazzling
lining our pathway
already a vivid spectrum of technicolour
we sat on plastic and pine stools
dropping kroner into the palm
of a great Dane
and laughed with love
as we tried to make wooden horses
gallop to the end of a straight line
taking our time
appreciating life
as it’s meant to be.
Together.
That’s why
I felt at home in Copenhagen.
Paul Writes Poems 