My day,

My day is not young
my day is not old
my day is not buried beneath the soul.
One day you will find it
and it will speak out to you
"good morning, good noon, good night,"
then explode with flight
ecstatic you'll affix your sight,
whilst dusk brings tidings
and dear day will disapparate,
perhaps to a far corner of some parallel.

Messy fragments scattered
along your weeping smile,
lickable memories for a fond friend
upon distant isles
of the same galactic supermarket.
My day, some day.

Little

All I find are windows.
Little person, little life, see's little of everything.
There is no gold
just spun faerie tales.

Said the Bambi

If we have to be young before we get old, lets be beautiful & cliched, then if our brains melt into a chaos of memories-it will be as spectacular as it is now

Sweet Goodmorning's

Along your body's side
I lay in peace
and when the sun did arise
I merely pretended I had helped you to sleep.

Here's a very short, short for Bluebell Books this week, and a little poem for Dverse- hope you enjoy it :)

Little Riding

It niggles the gelatine bit,

tilted lids and slightly bit lower lip.
If I were to-
it would never end,
one moment delirium
is my larger,
the next I can't handle

a half.
Leave/ stay
I daren't.
So long distilled solitude
and your unrefined path,
I cannot care
but you pump the liquid so neatly
it's best to stick to the levelled cement,
ride out the wolfy.

The letter to Oz

Fear is love
and there is nothing more ferocious than the creature herself.
Listening quietly and glazing politely
wishing crooked smiles on the windowsill,
enraptured fingers hovering over your desolate skin.
You loose your mind
it'll never come back,
not without the rats and worms.
Living with new memory
speaking, running, understanding
loneliness and fear.
Fear the affair that casts your endless sleep,
how I wish the kitten would lick my wounds once more.
The empty pit of conciousness
forbidding.
I know that of wrong
but I wish it right anyway.

This is my poem for poetry picnic week 23 http://gooseberrygoespoetic.blogspot.com/2012/01/poetry-picnic-week-23-new-york-times.html

Able

When you are able
to own up to the pen
that bled that tear,
you wont be able to write
a single truth
to it.

Memorial for the black coat

And in any hour
she would tare aware my gaze
the scoured flacks
of cheekbone,
hungry for face.

Memorial for the black coat;

never really gone though,
are you?

Inside the ribcage

Hello,
here is an art version of my poem Inside the ribcage :)
http://tinyurl.com/739r54y

Also links onto my facebook fan page if you would bless me with a like :) xx

P.S HAPPY NEW YEAR

The rolling twenties

I'm in love with a sailor
who cruises deadly swamps,
his eyes are scarce under his eyelashes
though big as the pools he plunders,
so I can't tell what he is thinking
whilst his lips move or cease to part.

I'm in love with a sailor
who has emptied my heart,
of it's liver, of it's guts, of its frost bitten blood.
In place there is dewy bark,
of my ever complicated woods-
but like the rain forests drenched in sun
the floor is an eclipse of it's stature.

I'm in love with a sailor
who rids me of all life,
and I am to live
as ever in the darkness of knights.
Dear traveller I cannot see you so far off,
my eyes are over age
for the dreams you left me to lead
me, in that other universe...

but without them,
what, without them?
Shelves of ideas of words of numbers of
realities that drain lemons
to make bitter lemonade.

Happy New Year :) DVerse Poets and The Poetry Palace poets too x

http://dversepoets.com/

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/

The barble and the Garbfish

"Not I"
"Not me"

said the Barble and the Garbfishy!
"It must be her!"
"The cat!"
and there she sat,
oh so fat devouring the poor little rat-
(subsequently, Ratty squeeled
"it could be worse, your skin could be getting peeled!"
and Barble bubbled and bloated
whilst old Garb he giggled and gloated
"It could be worse, we could be a rat!"
-"no, no" said Barble "a cat,
who must dine on a rat,
to get so fat,
I'd rather anything but that!"
and they both did roar,
until they stopped roaring that is).

"Silly mog, it's time to work!"
and with twink of her second left whisker down,
the place began to drown,
"spinn spannn spick spock"
(she purred)
"What a devious feline you've got!"
(the rodent eeked),
Old Poseidon let the Dolphins loose,
who played chess with a portrait and stole a goose!
Whilst Barble battled a belly dancing jelly fish,
hanging on to a genie granted a pig it's final wish
and Garbfish swam
the deadly mile of hangerclam-
but all too soon...
RINGRING ZIIING!
The doorbell zapped them all
and so the dust fell from the wall
and so it was ready for the call
from their relatives...

"To dinner my dear"
"To tea indeed"

Dear Quiet thing

Dear Quiet thing
your slumber is unblushed.

lithe and forbidden
my desires tousle my spines,
dear coffee, dear shower, dear bed
you're not quite as divine.

Breathe catches my tongue
mid-fight,
sober the sombre daylight,
with guilty mane without much to tell.

Dear Quiet thing
your slumber is unblushed,
lace snapped and gnarled
I am heaving mockery
and dust on your little soul.

Our forgetful ballet.

Oh Quiet thing,
oh my quiet things.

Waltzing the void

I am being the coward I loathed,
shady under my clothed
skins,
the beds re-made day to day,
scratching as old leaves fall;
my body is always in autumn.

Certainty heavy,
I already miss,
I simply do not know what to do.

But I know I cannot commit to problems
and I know I cannot commit to solutions.
I am an allusion amidst the mirror,
but the host
is unrecognisable.

This is my post for the Gooseberry Garden and DVerse Poets, I'm afraid it's miscellaneous really, but here it is anyhow. Thank you for reading :) x

Analytic puddles

I will speak statistic,
interpret eyelashes,
look at walls which only invite
the collection of spacious nothings.

Peggles

Hello,

This is my poem for the The Gooseberry Garden Week 13. For me childhood, dreams, books and role models all fit in one, they float around in my inner child, and I don't think I'll ever grow up and out of their ingrained memory. I hope you enjoy it.

Peggles

I've never been special
but in my heart and yours.

Cave-scribing till I understood
whilst singing in the garden.

The last time my hair fell in my eyes,

I'd become grown.

Shoelaces binding stories
and my sketches
to memories that
can no longer breathe alone.

My clouded head
grazing on love,
I will try to avoid walking
with my hands in my pockets-
I promise.

Inside the ribcage

She's difficult-
interchangeable, indescribable.
Incoherent.

And until we're in agreement
my mind can't keep up.

Inside the ribcage

nest upon nests are made,

and maybe I am in there too.

Compass to masses:

stranded out here,
in your beautiful arms- outstretched
across the miles
that descend loneliness.

That ascend her clots.

Picnic on the marrow,
she beats a thousand drums;
land, home, hereafter.
Tomorrow it will be plain,
and tonight in vain.

Atlantis

Sweet heart you lay me,
And I can't hear the streets,
Every specter dissolves to
Blue nectar
beats.

I am foreverly canal knots
To timid for the bow.
If I open my eyes
Will the skies
Be sour?

I am in debt
For taking the sapphire
Flames to admire
Atlantis beckons in sweet hearts.

Diversity

Here's some spoken word for http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/ I hope you enjoy it :)

Okay, this is my first attempt at this poem out loud and at filming so forgive me if you will if it's a bit off :) I will be performing tomorrow at Liverpool Poetry Slam, if I don't freeze up of course ;)

You can see the written poem on this post http://strangemouth.blogspot.com/2011/10/diversity.html

Old Nelly

Old Nelly so blue
hasn't the notes to do

some say she's a one hit wonder
but she knows she's made of thunder
singing those sad chord days,
she plays her jazz in new ways.

Old Nelly play the nose,
ring out the sax
and soak the audience with your hose,
stamp them with the facts,
Old Nelly's back!

Diversity

I was born out of a number,
Faces defining my world,
and I've always been inclined to cumber
the distress I witness at this berth
against the figure.

Yes, the figure that is and is not,
because I have no culture, no heart, nor home.
I am something light tricks to be, an illusion of diversity,
the colour of your teething bone,
the greatest profanity
being humanity,
I am much less-the unfortunate- the unknown.

Words are nothing without your lips,
and spite can't see without some tongue.
So being human cannot reason
without some puncture to the lung.

If there is a God he is not here,
the reliance of invisibility
is one to me
an unintelligibly cowardliness of fear.

You want the air, to take care of what you said was your own will.

You want new souls to suffer for an ancient bill.

You want me to stand and say I am sorry for something I haven't done,

when you're the one,
who is ticking the times tables incorrectly.

Today will be tomorrow and soon after the great past,

If you don't want history
to be seeded in misery
then you should stand out and make it last.

I was born out of a number,
mathematically spiralled into life,
and so far I still find it a struggle
to understand the joy of waking.

To be born is to be alone,
To live is to be surrounded,
To die is to be free,
but for that you must work first.

And I don't barter with this curse,

if there is nothing- I may as well exist a little first.

But what I can't compose is how I see these faces,

where others separate by numbers, words and races,
I only see one in the mirror:

human.

This is my entry for the DVerse Poets Open Link Night (http://dversepoets.com/) Hope you enjoyed reading it if you stumbled upon me, check out some of the other poetry by following this link http://www.blenza.com/linkies/links.php?owner=dversepoets&postid=09Oct2011