Commonword Blogs

I have an old poem which I have edited, but still feel it needs some critique:

I am painting the hands of a widow -
paisley and swastika windows open up.

Orange permeates as the henna dries
on her shrivelled skin that was soft long ago.

Soon I reach her fingertips.
She smiles and laughs with us girls.

The moon grins through the cold window,
lighting up the patio.

Munching popcorn and Doritos, I gaze at her perfect
disposition dressed in crisp white clothes.

I remember His words: ‘You are a garment for him

1300 hrs CET, July 2009

There's no beer here Steve, no beer here.
No-one drink since he die.

Fridge empty, freezer full with ice.

My thoughts fidget for answers,
I move my feet a bit;
scratch grit against the concrete.

In the cellar, wine turn to vinegar
By the day, he says,

As I murmur hail Mary for him,

And the moon – still up there,
But harvest not needed anymore.

lines 1,2,3, 7,8, 10 and 11 in italics - could someone please update the format ability for this website function...

Who knows me as real
as I’m in original?
Neither son nor daughter,
nor it’s wife or friend –
and not even she’s mother.

I’m solely trapped inside my own –
expressed as many a reflection,
some nearer to reality though most are
absolutely of no certainty.

This world as we see could show
only shadows reflected upon the mirror of
imagination – while the figure, in original,
is nowhere, as though never were.

My weaknesses are many folds
though strength is limited
and always on a stake –
still my strength weights more
than the huge of weaknesses –
to acknowledge our own weaknesses
is to obtain strength.

White sheets straddle washing lines.
Blow in the wind, from the bellow of
petrol station attendants, who make
rainbows on windscreens with their elbows.

Yaki Niku smoulders on charcoal.
Mochi melts all corners of my mouth,
it's red centre, like Lava. The Black
inviting eyes of the female sushi chef
as she shapes the tuna.

Childrens bags' bounce with pokemon.
Hello Kitty key rings, swing from their straps.
Yellow hats, synchronize on red, scatter on green.

Tennis balls pop, on a soft clay court.
An old man stubbles, his white cane scrapes

The washing machine judders
Spills out the over stuffed load
The kitchen floor protests the intrusion
On his quiet day

Door groans open
He sighs with relief
Retches up sopping jeans
Heavy hoodies
Combat pants
Heaves up the enforced fodder
Clears his throat
And relaxes

He offers up his silent prayer
To silicone heaven
Wishes for a light
Half-load next time

Hungry laundry basket is fed
With knotty bras
Tangled knickers

And murky whites

One of your socks fondly holds
The arm of my pyjamas
Softened by familiarity
And friendship

My inner child
wants to explore the wonders
of washing up liquid bottles
and the adaptability of
sticky back plastic

Wants to stick her face in glitter
Apply for a Blue Peter Badge
Recieve a Why Don't You Fact Pack
And have Jim fix it for her
to finger-paint her way to success

She wants to skip
Turn handstands
And camp in the Wendy House
Sucking hot chocolate
through a twirly straw

Little Me wants to
fuzzy-felt away the lonely evenings
And detain the Care Bear for questioning
at the Lego police station

She magnadoogles herself a new life

This is a Depressing Poem
I get up to see the sun broken

Black thoughts fill the rooms and all I can say is hello again

All good has been cast in the shadow the moment his team walk in

You’re Disabled, no wonder you’ve no company when you were enabled you were hit by a bus at least with us you’re sure

I get up to see the sun is broken and the spring has been chained up, winters shipped in

You’re broken so why even think about fixing yourself? You’ll just be a ghost to the men who stand tall what else you got to offer

Delia Trifle

Delia trifle with me

If all I can do is be in love with you whatt can I do when you’re in another’s hand?

He’ll take so much more care of you than I but…

Delia trifle with me, just once in them eyes I feel anything could last

Sure I should be a good boy but Delia he never got the girl, just got blown apart

Iv told’em love isn’t good for me I’ve nothing within me but a sex drive

The twists and turns of your sweet Helter Skelter body babe, to me it’s a rhapsody I’d be no good for love I’m made of stone.

Where would I go
I don't know, yet realize
distant and far
I'm to roam.

Where lies the land
isn't burnt or fossilized as
human insight has been
all over the world?