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.
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.
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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.
The knife lays flat against an aging oak chopping board surrounded by it’s own memories carved through slashes and slices my eyes scour the glistening blade a calm silver matching the solitary teardrop gliding down my face the noir neoprene handle stares back in disdain like an amputated limb ready for disposal the last thing sliced was a tomato blood red and soft flesh that I held delicately preventing bruising and blemishes the last act of a business laid to rest it’s obituaries written through smiling faces full stomachs and empty plates.
This poem was written on National Poetry Day in response to the prompt ‘the end of a triumph’. It depicts the closing of my catering business due to the Covid-19 pandemic.
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
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.