Opportunity rasped repeatedly at my door knuckles bloodied, bruised and broken until they were incapable of knocking again I chose to open up once silence fell with head bowed I took it’s palms in mine and healed sores with words ‘Why didn’t you answer ?‘ Opportunity asked and in my mind the truth was told – ‘there are far more deserving than I‘.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem. I hope you enjoyed it. If opportunity knocks, always answer because it may take you to places you could only dream about.
We called the travelling funfair “The Shows” the same way our parents did when they arrived in The Wick late summer excitement that smelled of hot sugared doughnuts, flowing diesel and damp trampled grass the air was always a kaleidoscope of flickering lightbulbs and brightly painted plywood shrill screams of exhiliration could be heard over a mile away layered over a techno soundtrack thumping with the pulses of waltzer-spun teens and kids riding the ghost train anticipating the supersoaker squirt on exit sometimes I liked to play the bandits tuppence to ten-pence a go so nothing to lose really the games were good to – one night I hooked six banana-yellow ducks and walked home with six goldfish struggling to hold the punch balloon and pink-pillow candy floss in my other hand it was a great time to be alive amongst crowded smiles and double denim spending my paper round and pocket money like fun was going out of fashion and just the other day I saw an internet flyer “The Shows” are back this year travelling up and down the coast and although I’ll not see them I can taste the air –
the flavour of excitement.
Thanks for taking the time to read my poem and feel free to check out some of my other writing.
that thick cotton shirt shade of deep midnight with moon-silver thread glistening ethereal under streetlights wearing it felt celestial so I only wore it once for our first date drinks and pizza looking at each other over red gingham cloth and flickering candle wax dripping down an empty bottle of last week’s house wine conversation mostly answers to silent questions asked with eyes and the curve of nervous lips I tried to be a gentleman and pull out your chair as we were leaving the waiter saw it as an affront for which I apologised to show I was a gentleman and when we hugged goodbye I felt our cheeks touch both warm with wine and affection so when I see the same shirt folded neatly in your drawer close to the memory box and wedding album I catch a glimmer from the moon-silver thread that helped stitch our lives together I believe in magic.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem, dedicated to my beautiful wife.
a dispassionate mound of glaucous ash the warmth lost ready to die out at any moment
a scattering of embers the reminder of warmth we shared when flames flickered in frivolity kissing and caressing kindling and coal when white,gold and ochre danced as strong as they could for as long as they could to the gentle chaotic rhythm of crackling shades of silver in the hearth silently whispering Live Life Like The Fire.
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this poem and are having a great day.
Zero degrees C in the peak of midwinter we wrapped up warm in wool and polyester pulled on our boots thick with suede upper and gripping rubber soles primed and ready to walk the forest its floor frosted white glamourising the natural litter of fallen acorns and amber needles we held each others hand through our scandi grey gloves a) for support since I was clumsy and b) for love we looked out over the blank frozen fields and into the feeble glare of a weakened winter sun some chimneys breathed in the distance a sign of life going on while time stood still as we tightened our hands our minds raced to what the future would hold luckily for me I still get to hold you.
Thanks for reading. Thanks to freestocks on unsplash for use of the image.
on christmas eve i like to sing along to the christmas songs of yesteryear when the gifts are wrapped neat little bows twinkling under lights from the tree aromas of spice, pine & mulled wine filling the house scented memories connecting us all even though we may be apart.
have a wonderful christmas and an incredible new year.
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.
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.
Thanks for taking the time to read my poem, feel free to have a look around the rest of my site.