Tag Archives: observations

Older or Younger?

It’s hard to respond to the

insouciant rudeness of the young,

but then I was once so

certain of my rectitude,

wrote paeans to pain,

love-lyrics to unattainable and

frankly unsuitable lovers,

belittled a warm home and

bewildered parents, blamed

bosses and politicians and even

implicated the innocent

Moon in my moanings.

 

Am I better in old age?

Don’t I still rage at the

nightly news, bristle at some

shallow social shibboleth?

Do I not fall in love, or

lust, at the drop of a hat?

Am I not still prone to

enthusiasms, losing people,

making their eyes glaze?

Is the Moon not still

sullied by my

perpetual poetic probings?

 

So I ask you, am I

better older or

should I give in to the rude

insouciant adolescent

hidden within me?

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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.

Life Curves

Life Curve

I knew behind those clouds were

stars, just the ones I could see, and

behind them stars and stars and

yet more stars

 

but so what when

life is almost but

not quite, close but

no cigar? Well maybe

 

half-empty or half-full

life curves away from

mystery to the

stone kicked, the

 

moment we have all felt when

our dreams must

give way to a

different reality.

Silent Day

That there were no birds on this

Christmas Day was strange enough—

no roving bands of coal-tits

committing rapine on my plants; no

robins with their proud strut; no

blackbirds with their

profound sense of ownership; no

starlings mobbing up then

splitting to squatter noisily;

no rooks or crows; no

libidinous pigeons pouting on

rooftops; merely a few

far-away gulls

skriving the swift wind—but

what was strangest was the

immense silence.

Desdemona in the Playground

Portia just farted and is

red-faced but to be fair our

Director put us through a

hard workout as he sees

“Othello” in a school playground with

Othello as the immigrant kid.

 

Does that mean we are all

child brides? “Let’s move on”.

So I am hanging upside-down on the

monkey-bars, my skirt over my face,

showing my knickers to Iago and

God knows who else.

 

He takes me aside after the rehearsal:

“Your hair…” “Oh do you want it

up or down? Top knot or perhaps a

ponytail?” “No!” he whispers, “No,

down there!” Oh, so

I am to be a child again?

 

Not a woman,

not an actress,

not a person but

just a doll with

no genitalia in the

theatre of ideas?

A Mother and a Daughter

As she was going she

went back to those

childhood woods where she

could hide for hours and

be naughty but you

resented your absence from a

world where you

weren’t conceived or

even imagined.

Anaesthesia

We so anaesthetize dying that

family and friends may as well be at a

pre-Funeral, unable to touch and

talk, reminisce and laugh through

what might be pain but may

also be love’s last kiss,

abolishing last words

famous or not.

An Easterly

The wind gets to you the way

other weathers won’t,

smiting your face with

unexpected blusters, the blows

turning your cheeks red,

chasing you round corners

as though each gust was

after you personally and

each grain of grit

aimed perfectly at the

centre of your eye.

Salted

footprints2

The snow recuses itself from the grass, but

retains my sole, though my

thoughts are salted with

such impurities the snow

should surely melt.

Just Words

Kind words sink silently into the

memory-sponge of the walls but

harsh words carom around the house

forever, their cockroach-carapaces

impossible to crack.

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