Author Archives: fridayam

I work as a TV Director, but have written poetry all my life. This is a selection of my work. Tell me what you think. You can see another aspect of my writing here http://fridayerotica.blogspot.com/

Perfect?

Who can ever write the

perfect love poem, half

heartache, half

heartbreak, completely

lost and almost found,

cast up on some

alien shore watching

buoys and gulls all

adrift on the same

choppy sea?

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Little Women Making Loud Noises

Fridayam's Blog

I’m not sure Ms. Alcott had

this in mind but I love

loud women in my life,

singing their songs full-throated,

spearing their words through

vain assumptions,

shaking pulpit and

parliament and shouting

“harder, faster” into my

receptive ear.

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Wild Flowers

Thank God nobody is perfect for
love would have no
grip for its wind-blown seeds to find
cracks and crannies in
seemingly solid surfaces to
sprout and spread its
sharp tendrils to
cover what would have been a
bare wall with
wild flowers.

Opening Properly

The house grows old with us, and it’s

open to question which of us

creaks and complains more as the

stairs are climbed.

 

That tap takes two or three

turns to get going and the

flow is not

what it was.

 

That light in the kitchen

flickers and fails, but a

rap or two makes its

heart beat again.

 

That radiator never seems

hot until the key

lets out a

delicate brown fart.

 

That window never opens

that window

never opens

properly.

Days

Fridayam's Blog

Days aren’t of themselves onerous: there are

hard moments but it’s mostly

boredom, a big old

empty building in which

shafts of sunlight

pierce through holes in

dusty brickwork and you

hope to find yourself

illuminated once in a while.

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UnLoved

Fridayam's Blog

She was unloved abruptly, as though

unFriended on Facebook where all the

family photos, the inane comments, the

frapes, the smileys, all those

terrible moments of happiness

hung nakedly in front of the

whole world, the laundry she

put out clean now

dirty again.

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Dark Pearls

Fridayam's Blog

The storms rolled down the valley like

dark pearls gathering

sun and sticky heat and

gumming them together into

fat envelopes for

posting elsewhere.

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Amor Vincit Omnia?

Fridayam's Blog

We want love to be the

centrifuge of life, spinning the

scoria into oblivion, leaving

only purity behind, but

design flaws, outages, our

inability to follow the

simplest instructions means the

shit keeps seeping back into the

autoclaves of our hearts,

spoiling everything.

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U.S.S. Carondelet (1861-73)

Fridayam's Blog

Carondelet cruises Mississippi

an upturned cooking pot afloat

broiling the men inside

bristling with guns

looking for fights and finding them

sluicing the blood of dead and deafened men

scouring the great

drainage of the West from

war’s hopeful hoopla start to its

sullied and bitter end.

Cumberland Ohio Missouri

Yazoo Red all

belch their waters into

Mississippi’s great churn and

she sailed them all (though

she barely got out of Red

caroming over rapids)

and their endless bayous overhung with trees

dripping with snipers.

She took her hits but

never lost a fight and when

they came to scrap her found

she’d gone in the night

on a flood tide, preferring

the grave of her enemies

to that of her friends.

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“By Cock, they are to blame.”

Fridayam's Blog

Each night I dread putting on that costume,

pulling on that character, her plain

shift, knee-length stockings, the hated

“pair-of-bodies”, farthingale, bum-roll,

petticoat, kirtle, partlet, all topped with the

splendid silk gown and for “authenticity”

no knickers, so that I feel

naked despite so much clothing, so

obsessed with my bare sex, so

alive to “country matters”.

I think of the boys who played my part but

with a part I didn’t have, dangling—

did they have some codpiece, some

protection I am not allowed?

“Beginners” doesn’t mean me so

finally finished I can look at myself:

I am 26 but look 16 so if I were her I

could be married and

dead of my fourth child by now and

I think of it…..No

I think on’t. Think of being just a

poppet (but a poppet with thoughts and

hormones) bred to be bred,

pimped by my family for…

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