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.
the feat of self-propulsion from one’s bed whilst the sludge of self-repulsion is coursing through one’s head is an extremely powerful thing to do
through mumbled words and scratching sobs the step taken to share your thoughts with another whether it be friends, family, stranger or lover is a monument of courage
think of it, as like learning a new skill a realisation that things can and will get better but may take time to figure out displays a resilience you may not have known about
these are things I say from experience imprisoned in darkened rooms and a midnight black bleak mind in a state of self-exile shutting the whole world out through obtuse notions of a lack of self-worth but I overcame it and freed myself through seeking help and standing up.
Believe in You as others do even when you take the smallest of steps you are strong, brave and powerful
This poem was written for World Mental Health Day 2020. If you feel you need help with your mental health, speak to someone then contact a GP, Mental Health service or a Counselling service in your area.
Take it easy and look after yourself and each other
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 recognised my sister’s age 7 years old trying to buy 20 Silk Cut and 2 litres Cider on behalf of his Dad struggling under the weight of expectation
a man 40-ish 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
a man 50-ish years old reeking of addiction to tabs and cheap booze storming 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 alcoholand 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 then in his 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 “be kind to those who deserve your kindness scum always rises, but it always ends up skimmed and discarded, remember that, learn how to recognise and skim out hatred and you’ll be alright“ 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,