poetryblog

Carnivale

rum-wide spacehopper eyes 
staring up at midnight Malagan sky 
discoball stars  glistening 
like a dancers skin 
my bloodstream inferno 
ready to set my beachgrass bed ablaze 
voiceless flame amidst the pulse of revelry 
the forest of ravers surrounding 
                                   will welcome the fire 

I raise myself 
but remember my legs are lost 
to strong liquor and            fatigue 
stumbling into a dance 
floating on the breeze of          second wind 
rotor blade arms almost                take me away 
and what goes up 
must come down 
I’m laughing at myself 
backing track of Faithless 
and howls and cheers 

when I wake 
I want this feeling to be            my cure 
                                                        my comfort 
                                                                  my soul.

Footy Down The Rec

To be twelve again 
drunk on the scent 
       of summer-sweated privet 
eventful walks to the pitches sometimes  
a dog jumping from a garden-strewn manky sofa  
                   or fly-tipped washing machine  
and husbands fighting with wives 
binliner of clothes next to them on the pavement  
                           comedy in tragedy when you’re that young 
we always took a few balls 
best to - if some of the older lads were around 
on lighter-fluid highs - lacking sense 
but the nights of Wembley 
three hours of pelting leather against bare legs  
ball bobbling       along the clumped surface 
bodies skimming the field like           lawnmowers 
     making outrageous crunching tackles 
 ankles twisting like Maradona past Reid
rabid rapture at curling a Mitre Delta into the top corner 
      and green-kneed, mud-stained wanders home
a magic that can never be imitated 
           unlike the knockoff boots and shin pads 
give me that innocence back 
               - that simplicity of fun 
                          with friends.















Grains of Memory

Your table is a real table
sliced oak and oil-dressed
uneven surface                                          like the road leaving the village
grains swollen from drowning emotions
                  - and spilled cups of tea

so many hands have smoothed it
over so many years
some anxious
some happy
           - all loved

a few splinters are bulging from the corners
each a memory
some good
          some bad
some probably just about the times the ashtray was missed
and maybe one where the beer bottle exploded
resting like a stained glass window
         - the table ready to hear pre-night-out confessions 

if it could talk 
how many stories could it tell 
 - too many to worry about 


next time we’re around it
we should give thanks
drift palms gently over the lines
a loose embrace
that clings tightly to the seams
              - like the roots of our friendship.

Tribute

Helios had painted the sky
that night – lipstick pink –
his chariot pulled the heart-crimson sun
lingering for moments
while I enjoyed sips of retsina

I wondered if he was trying to emasculate
all those below
because how can mortals compete with gods – 
when it comes to creating special moments
like that first dinner of a honeymoon

but I was caught between the earth of your eyes
and the horizon, colour of romance
and realised it was a tribute to you
to us
to our love.

Lost & Found

Two Northern harvest-mice
with hawk-lit eyes
we slinked around London
from Kings Cross to Trafalgar
without hedgerow or hay to hide in
only plateaus and towers of grey

we had no map
so followed the route of bus stops
resting only a couple of times
trying not to inhale too much oil-slick air
smouldering under June’s sun

after the fifth wrong turn
tedium began to shriek
like car horns
but you smiled and said
“we’ll try around the next corner, you can’t get lost when you’re in love”

a composure in your voice
that buried the tumult
chaos collapsing
into
calm

we found ourselves on a busy London street.

Exile

I crawled into the carcass
of your scavenged legacy
stitched a cocoon from the carrion
of false epithets bestowed
on your name.

sepia-brittle and crumbling I clung
pupating in a squall of anger
until I sliced my way out
a katana soul-drawn
from the scabbard of my heart
a ronin now
banished for freeing myself
from the collective.

I carry our memories
in the whetstone
that tempers blade
exquisitely fatal.

Advent Calendar Poem #24: A Mild Christmas Eve

The low dawn casts its shadow
gently as pastel persimmon
across the rooftops
as blinds twitch 
in hope of snowfall 

robins like paladins
stand proudly atop fenceposts 
keeping watch over the people they love
singing quiet whispers of strength 

along the emerald and dull silver hedgerow 
the squabbles of nature seem calmer
as if peace has befallen predator and prey
and no man’s land is safe for a while 

believing isn’t seeing
believing is believing

Thanks for joining me for the last day of the advent calendar of poems. I hope you’ve enjoyed my scribbling over the past month and year. All your support is highly appreciated.

Here’s a quote from my favourite Christmas film, Scrooged: “ It’s Christmas Eve! It’s, it’s the one night of the year when we all act a little nicer, we, we, we smile a little easier, we, w-w-we, we, we cheer a little more. For a couple of hours out of the whole year, we are the people that we always hoped we would be! It’s a miracle, it’s really, a sort of a miracle because it happens every Christmas Eve.”

Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year

Paul

Advent Calendar Poem #23: Pressure Cooking

There’s a tumbling of sprouts
mini green baubles spilling 
over the kitchen floor 
from the punctured paper bag
a reindeer’s snack 
has caused the tear 
as if anticipating 
the sound of sleigh bells 
but the only sound at the moment 
is sobbing and swearing 
the self-imposed pressure building 
before you can relax 
you have a hundred jobs to do
but Christmas isn’t all on your shoulders
grab a drink and take a seat 
a deep breath to slow down
like snow falling 
everything will be okay.

Hey everyone Merry Christmas Eve Eve. Thanks for taking the time to stop by and read the penultimate advent calendar poem for 2022.

Here’s a quote from one of my favourite Xmas movies, The Polar Express “Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can’t see.”

Take It Easy

Paul