Wednesday, 29 November 2017

carousel poem

It's not the first night,
No it's not the first time, It's been this way before
waiting, steadily humming, the white walled suffocation,
the reality, it waits, behind the black panelled, golden handled door.
The pipes are laughing behind the plaster,
but not in a friendly way
and the black windows remain still, eyes that died a while ago
gaze miserably out to the street.
Solitary madness, a carousel of colour
but the gramophone is silent, and eerily the horses go round
much to the displeasure of the only person watching
alone in the non existent crowd, waiting for a turn that never comes
round and round the colours blur,
but no music plays from that old gramophone,
well, who ever rides a carousel when they're on their own?

Tuesday, 3 October 2017

Poem 03/10

Oh thank God for that!
Crisp skin broken on a juicy red apple.
Sweetest tang, slightest pain
juices rolling down flecked flesh
shadows on every alcove
in this darkened room
heady, and heated
open a window.
Now the glistening mass of shadow on the bed
is sated no end, and a juicy apple sits shining red

Wednesday, 16 August 2017



I walked past you the other day,
I don't think you recognised me
 it's been a year, so much has changed
but in that moment I missed you once again
ruined by noise and an over used ashtray
I bought black bed sheets, to remind me of you
sitting here another night, the truth is heavier still
you are a lifetime ago now,
I wanted to touch that door, tap on that window
sit there for just one more minute,
so you would know, I think about you all too often
when I come into this place, and I sit here alone
I think about you, while my eyes are closed
and I'm home.

Tuesday, 18 July 2017

Poem. Burning skin

The rooms chilled, from the open windows,
and it licks her burning skin.
In this cell, removed from the constricting identity
of her primary life.
She harbours another, a faraway wish,
Don't come in here, to this obscure place
no one belongs but the girl with burning skin
hidden away in a Sin.
and I watch from the doorway
toes on the threshold
for I am not her, geminate dreams
We are separate, in two
for while I stand on the threshold
she is in there, thinking about You.

Sunday, 25 June 2017

Standing Down

I made a decision recently to step down from my higher position at work.
It was a long time coming, I've felt from the beginning that the whole leadership thing wasn't for me. I spent just under a year working extremely hard to rise higher, hearing wonderful things about myself from others and being liked by, I think, everybody. Then after getting promoted I spent eleven months trying to be someone I'm not. You can't do these jobs and stay the same. You can't excel in business and be the person you want to. I thought I could adapt and change but it took months of being unhappy for me to realise I actually like who I am. No titles, no honours, just being me.

I know now what my qualities are, because people tell me all the time:
I'm funny.
I make others feel good about themselves
I'm honest to the point it makes people re-consider their own opinions and actions
I'm a good time.
and I turn the ordinary into something special

None of these things rate very highly on the authority, leadership, responsibility role I thought I wanted.

I have to admit, my heart was never really in this. How could it be? I paint, I write, I create.
I wanted the position for the wrong reasons. I kept looking at myself through others eyes, thinking I needed to improve. I thought I needed to be in a position of importance, to impress my friends? Jones? To feel like my degree was worth a penny? To feel like Jones saw me as slightly more impressive because I was closer to his level. - Feminist of the year award just sailed on by flipping me the bird.

Yeah it definitely took me a while to figure out, the only person I should have been thinking about, was myself. What I want, and what I see when I look in the mirror. For months I've seen a shadow of my former self, someone who's gone back to a quiet lonely shell, stressed and conflicted all the time. I had to step away from it. It wasn't for me.

Turns out, Jones was so supportive I was thrown off balance, I expected disappointment and there was none. Christine thinks I ought to give Jones more credit, she said I could be a slum kitchen dish washer and he'd still be happy with me. I don't know what my sisters in law saw in Jones when they first caught him looking at me, I don't know what they see now four years later, but it's a million miles away from where I am looking. To hear other people talk, I must be blind in comparison.

Christine thinks whatever I do, wherever I go, Jones will be one step beside me. Why do I doubt this whenever I make a difficult decision? It's as if to some of the outsiders looking in, Jones' is a concrete pillar unmovable, and strong in my life. But all I keep thinking is: Hurricanes and Earthquakes bring down bridges and buildings like flour in the wind every couple of years. The twelve year old who's often in the back of my mind pipes up asking how I grew to be such a cynic.

Well, that's that. I guess the point of this post was that even if you rise through the ranks, even if it's what everybody expects, there's no shame in admitting that you'd rather be yourself and be poorer and happy than change yourself to suit others and feel like a stranger. Even if you went to Uni, and have 3 years of debt built behind you, it's not a failure to decide you don't give a shit about growing a massive successful career. A job's a job and it's better than standing in line at the dole office. Wanting a family and running a home doesn't make you less of a feminist than those who work all hours rubbing shoulders with the big men in suits. To hell with expectations, and impressing anybody else. The only one who matters is me. and I like being me.

Thursday, 22 June 2017

Wait. poem

Take a breath and a years gone by
Hold onto sleep a few seconds more
leave behind a hundred thoughts.
Impatience is rattling at the window
and each day is a hurricane of ignorance
wait, the whispers say, wait and wait longer.
Shifting beneath the sheets, in the humidity
waiting for the spill. Torment to the soul
the body's choice, natures will
wait, the whisperers whisper again, wait wait wait.

Sunday, 4 June 2017

Hope Poem

London Bridge is falling down
and still the world keeps spinning round
as terror fills the hearts of average man
we walk amongst strangers on our own land
In a world where you hold your phone,
not each other. Where you update instead of talk.
Here we stand in the rumble and ruins
of what was once a miracle.
The life we pass onto our young
tainted by years of war
and yet some joy still remains
hidden in the cracks of Hope
Hope for a future we'll all lay down our arms
when we wont shout and scream that the other is wrong
What if we each saw the other side?
What if when we die, I ended up in your heaven,
and you ended up in mine?
What if one day we're all that's left
stood together on the edge of death
nothing more in common than the Earth that we shared
and fought each other for, until the bitter end?
Or a world changed- because we suddenly realised
that everything would be better,
if we stood side by side.