Boat

I could probably write something cliche about boats and going on journeys, yet often times the furthest we go is when our feet are firmly stuck to the floor. 

 

I held the fleet,

Admiral for a team,

Starboard

Port-packed,

Silver stacked

I sailed out

For climates

Warm in the eve,

 

Spied bright sands

And trees,

Trees deep-rooted,

Head of table-seated

I ate my scarce meals,

Kicking my legs,

Space to swing free

Limber in too-large shoes

 

You told me to change,

That I tread with a limp,

And really,

I had never been where I’d gone,

It was an act

A ruse

To escape off the bat;

I could never walk a mile

 

But nor could I further stay

I was away again, smiling,

Already seeing shores anew,

Many leagues of bare toes

And covered crown undue;

The door slammed, I adjusted

The brim exact

 

If the boot doesn’t fit,

Tell me why I can’t wear my hat

Wearing My Clothes

“It can’t rain all the time” – The Crow

Drenched in rain,

I exhaled smoke,

Tried to force out

Sorrow of stone,

But it stayed

Heavy and warm;

An arm with choking hold

The sky was better,

Better with that role

Expressionate set

Unforgettable cold

And I, unclean, could not

Be washed from

This folded upset

Clinging closer than bone

For what there is,

Is sadness, sadness

Wearing my clothes

Waterlion

Wild weekend nights…

 

Waves upon waves

Crashing noise,

Roaring waterlion

Underjoyed

 

Turning tricks

For a drink,

For room to breathe;

Wants, musts, needs

Interwoven

Aggrieved

 

Unappeased,

I listened, could

Not fathom the call

Frequency dull,

Frequency sprawled

 

A Saturday night,

Feline, fully clawed –

The words and their

Handlers were all out,

Clashing furore

Extraordinary Vanilla

Something to savour and celebrate, for those with a sweet tooth…

Through course she would be

Dessert, I’d say

Soft, warm, sweet

With a twist,

Recommended virtue,

Grated zest,

Best served with cream

Lemon or lime pieces,

Spoon fed

Folding, fixed

In each slice spoken,

Her topped vanilla,

Eaten first choice,

Thickened flowing,

Her one fragrant vice

Locked Lips Tell No Lies – Extract 3

One day, when I was wandering through the grounds, daisies pink-tipped folding against night, I was taken back to my better days. I thought I saw you slipping through the huddle of trees, sixteen years old again. Impossible maybe, but somehow I could still believe. I ran forwards into the copse, trying to catch up with the years I had left behind. The sun was visible through the branches, and you were luminous in your white dress, hair so blonde it shone exuberantly. I trampled bluebells and daffodils as I hurtled forwards, the folds of your clothes whipping just out of sight around the next tree until we were face to face, brilliant and alive. I was you and you was me, and we were young and unaffected against the wings of a decade spanning age. I put out a hand, wanting to know if you were real, still existing beyond memory. You smiled and slightly shook your head, faded away as something crashed in the undergrowth. I was back in the present, where recollection was a necessity, and I didn’t know how I’d got there. It couldn’t be that easy.

Theo came creeping towards me, no longer heavy on her feet as if not to frighten a wild animal. She took me by the hand nervously, and led me to a stump covered in moss. At first she was quiet, and I wondered if she’d seen Artemis too and couldn’t find an explanation for it herself. She certainly seemed to be struggling with something; and when she dropped to the ground by my feet, she opened her mouth, unsure of what to say.

Where I Come From…

Image

 

Where I come from, the air

Is red: all oxygen leeched by greedy gasps

Of rage.

Angry words skitter; drops of

Colloquialism kick up their heels; and shiny

Soles are turned skywards.

Who is it, the one that polishes fury into a

Reflective furore?

Bitter; busy – hopping from one insult to another.

And manic tongues sink into

The neat slots of cardboard graves. This is the proxy, the

Battle, between loud life, and seething silence:

And not stepping on the cracks.

Fresh Ink: Volume One. A Literary Journal from the University of Hull (2011).

Sun-Lined Palms

When time wanes a certain phase of your life away, holding the hand of the one you love can be reassuring. Their hand retains the heat of happier times, though sometimes all you get is a moment’s warmth.

The streets were grey,

Dense in the sheen

Of driven rain

We took the curve,

Dragging an umbrella

Against the wind, folding

Wrapped up arms in coats

Palms out to the storm,

The city unfurled

Sun-lined

Despite winter’s snarl

We smiled,

All colour brought back

To this love-littered world