Out, out
our routine sparking art
Category: Poetry (Page 10 of 20)
Hugging,
enthused for Florence –
the flights,
the village.
You’ll stay glued,
but May,
the influx of boats,
the excitement,
the calm cathedral.
Hopeless, heaving, havoc-
wreaking, hateful, half-time
happenings, so harrowing, have you
any idea the hope that is lost,
the ways I have lost, so many ways
I was hoping to hop, to trot and
to heave my belongings, my half of
this world as it rots, the happiness
happening but not, the haste in
which my direction changes with the
wind, a hurricane forming in the
epicentre of hours of homecoming,
if only I could. If only home hadn’t
been lost. But hoping hasn’t made
anything happen, only the
actions of the whirlwind, the
heaviest of houses heaving
their bodies down, and I was
a house, I was a heart that had no
reason to hope, just a haze, a happy
helpful haze, now history, now
hungry, hurt, homeless, hopeless.
If only I could come home to my better
self, my halting, healthy, half-
baked, wisdomless self. If
only I could come home to all that is
lost, all that I lost.
I need to do something
to stop my hands from shaking
you could be the thing
that stops my hands from shaking
What am I doing with that look on my face?
That pained expression that’s so hard to erase.
What am I doing with this armful of feelings?
Trying to put them down and decipher the meanings.
What am I doing with this life all a-jumble?
Watching it rumbling past with a grumble.
I don’t want to progress, I just want to move backwards –
There’s no meaning in PPC and AdWords.
My soul is attached to a man with a guitar
who pours out his feelings, leaves my mouth ajar
because he’s plucked my thoughts right out of my brain
and now I don’t think, just hear his soaring refrain.
Most of the time we have is spoken for
I want to recycle old hours, relive them once more
and contemplate the minutes that make up my days,
rewind to my younger, more naïve ways,
go back to being like a carefree pup
and be granted permission to stop growing up.
But that just can’t happen, so what do I do?
Make the most of my free time when I’m with you,
daydream about leaving the old nine-to-five
and just make the most of being here and alive.
how the years have changed me.
what if the best years of my life
have been and gone already?
In a way I wish I had never grown up.
I remember lying on my belly
in the playground at six years old,
grazed elbows and broken fingernails,
trying to pick glistening stones
out of their asphalt prison
because I thought they were diamonds.
There are a billion stars under our
feet, twinkling in their icy garb,
and so many people don’t notice them.
These days they are all I want to see.
A poem a day doesn’t keep
the bad thoughts away.
It just replicates them on
the page –
but it’s better
than letting them fester
deep inside your brain.
Intermittent wails
Sirens sing a shrill warning –
Baby police car.
