Saturday, 4 February 2017

POEMS // TWO



Being a writer, the best kind of validation for you work is the reader connecting with your piece and interpreting it in a different way to someone else. I was absolutely thrilled with the feedback of my recent poetry post and feel much more confident in sharing the work I do. Working on my writing for three years has seen so much growth in the variety of work I produce, especially my poetry.




Ticking
I have no fear of death,
Only the fear of time.
 He lurks quivering
Until reaching hands of
Clocks strangulate lungs between
The paper thin skin of
Forgetfulness.

Time is mans
True monster beneath the bed,
A final falling petal of a
Summer flower, the last bus
From a static station.

It clings to every meeting, every
Fragile kiss, exercising its power
Over cups of stale coffee,
Un-ripened fruit dwindles, through
The early morning meetings, school runs
And shopping trips.

The real tragedy of ticking clocks
Is when the gentle chime ceases
Leaving behind only memories of
What could have been.

I have no fear of death
There is no time left to fear.




Siren Song
 Translucent water, how you lap the shore
Pebbles rejoice on barren sand.
Fingers graze frosted skin
Daisies entwine over laced hands.
Voices upon the Easter wind
Call out over hill and dale
Dress of white, face of snow
She stands carved, a life gone stale.
Indented footsteps upon earth’s floor
Breathing laboured, dragging bones
Eyes flourished with melancholy desire
Her voice grates those ghostly tones.
Feet burn to run, mind cannot comprehend
Impending night walker’s air
Her hands reach out, paper thin
Fingers reach through soft hair.
Mists reach their hands
Crashing waves, ferocious sea
Nobody lines the sandy shore
Not a body to be seen.


Wasteland
A wasteland of bodies lying scattered
behind rocks and ferns
and through the silence I scream
but no voices can be heard, no response is seen
but I run, where to, I do not know
watering eyes, bleeding feet, quickly retreat.

I have no cares, because this
this was not what I was told would happen
when I turned eighteen years old
shivering from the cold, as my fate unfolds
every story unravelled, so many untold.
You marked us as heroes, you brand us as saints
but if you saw the aftermath, the smell of blood
the faint whisper of a man’s last breath, dismembered hand
then you’d think twice, begin to understand
that there are no winners in war, no valour in death
no honour in murder.
Should I stop now or continue further?
A friend, a brother, a nephew, a son
deaths of so many, yet you think that we ‘won.’
Death takes us all but we offered him a plate of souls
to take, with no cares at stake, and it all seemed so fake
these boys were not even sixteen
but the things they have seen, are beyond your comprehension
so stop your exaggeration, of heroes.
‘They gave their tomorrow for our today,’
they had no choice, and they had no say, as to how
their lives cut short would end.
Even now as I watch the sun set, I can never forget
the sound of those bombs so loud against the earth,
that we thought we’d fall off and never return.
And sometimes if I close my eyes, disguise the tears
I am there again, no screams, only silence.
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2 comments

  1. Hi! I've just come across your blog and I absolutely love these poems! The last one especially resonated with me so much, the imagery in it is amazing.
    - Clare | stereo-clare.blogspot.co.uk

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Hi!
      Thank you so much for your lovely comment. It means a great deal to me!

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