Commonword Blogs

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?

Serenity comes a-callin,
His spirit relaxed,
Eyes light, open with ease
In the wake of past fatigue.

He rises to begin his day,
As usual, toast and coffee
His order of the moment.

Head lighter than yesterday,
Meds kickin' in,
The torpor of recent days
Displaced, alert at last.

Recovery has begun.

Walking nonchalantly
In the January bite,
Down to the river,
Stagnant waters
Allow time for reflection.

Sitting on the bank,
Drinking hot coffee,
Easing into recuperation once more.

Body temperature rising,
Hands relaxing around the cup.

I've been sending off a lot of work recently and researching , so sharing some useful links:

http://www.artsjobs.org.uk/arts-news-listings/ (this one is very good for competitions/call for submissions)

http://www.arvonfoundation.org/p1.html

http://www.literaturedevelopment.co.uk/home

http://www.britwriters.co.uk/index.html

International Religious Poetry competition: http://www.manchestercathedral.org/content/view/470/1/

Want to thank everyone who has taken the time to read and comment on my work on here. Pete, you know my work well and better than I and you were right about which ones were publishable as those have been selected by Leeds University Press. (I will listen to you from now!)

I read an early version of this when I came to the writers' group last summer. It's undergone quite a few changes since then....

Modern window frames
Verdant foliage
Forests rain
ferns curl
fine vines grab green air
beckon
fecund spiders, lazy flies

strange familiar fronds
trumpet players’ fast fingers
Finding fluttering rhythm

Spanish moss, pale as seaweed
Shrouds hirsute hackberries
Leaf skeleton hands, mottled dark veins
translucent green palms upwards
gesture of innocence

Below the dank armpits of valley oaks
marshmallow fungus
clings besotted

Operator: 'Ridge Hall, computer assistance; may I help you?'
Caller: 'Yes, well, I'm having trouble with WordPerfect.'
Operator: 'What sort of trouble??'
Caller: 'Well, I was just typing along, and all of a sudden the words went away.'
Operator: 'Went away?'
Caller: 'They disappeared.'
Operator: 'Hmm So what does your screen look like now?'
Caller: 'Nothing.'
Operator: 'Nothing??'
Caller: 'It's blank; it won't accept anything when I type.'
Operator: 'Are you still in WordPerfect, or did you get out??'
Caller: 'How do I tell?'

It’s my last day. I’ll never see the tall telephone cables, from the corner of my eye,
where they join up, black, look like crows; waiting.
Or the
Pink, blue and yellow futon’s, hanging over balconies,
blowing in the wind, from the holler of petrol station attendants,
Who make rainbows on windscreens with their elbows, egging cars, in and out.

I’ll never smell yaki niku, as it smoulders on charcoal:
Amy, splatting me with the fat.
Or
Taste the gumminess of mochi, melting all corners of my mouth:
It’s red centre, like lava.