poetry

Headphones and Wine Bottles: Afterthought

Living

With headphones and wine bottles

Doesn’t seem like the loneliest place to be.

But without you, dear,

It might as well be the end of the world

Outside those closed curtains.

So she’ll drink you away,

Praying for anything

But forgiveness.

God already left the building-

But she’ll remain for a few more years,

Wishing this was as poetic,

Or as romantic,

As she remembered…

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poetry

Headphones and Wine Bottles

Not exactly dressed for the kill-

Hell, she can’t even walk

In a straight line.

But she’ll still able to find her way

To you.

In these heels,

In those thoughts.

Always.

She dances with wine bottles

While headphones play

Some song

That had nothing to do with you.

Bare feet circling bare floors;

Bare hands hanging onto

Bare walls-

Or the toilet seat.

She feels poetic

Being this kind of broken;

Down in the dumps

Down on the floor

Over a heart that was never hers.

 

poetry

Blasphemy

Why do you kneel in prayer

To this aloof Heaven

That has never spoken

A word

Of forgiveness

Or paradise?

Those were all your

Meanings;

See, I think it’s man you’re praying to.

Not God.

Do you really think you can see yourself

In the angelic forms

Looming in pane?

Do you find salvation

In the paleness of humanity,

As streams of accusations

Enter our little box?

It’s hard for me to see your face

In this light,

But I know your eyes aren’t closed.

You’re looking at the floor,

Watching dust dance in the air,

Wondering why everything went wrong;

Why would god forsake me like this???

I’ll tell you why:

You do not seek forgiveness,

Obligation,

Praise,

Gratefulness…

These are no concern of yours;

But all these petty complaints

Are no doing of ours.

Of His.

We can all see the image

In your mind;

It’s of yourself.

poetry

My Goddesses and I

Sugared wings

And toasted words flicker

In the golden reflections

Of elderflower

And fizz,

And grapes from the yard

That grew in ghostly silence

Beside the thorn tree.

That is also where

I blossomed-

Beneath autumn rain

And summer suns-

That is where

My celestial mouth

Caught its first breath.

And I have endured

Many breaths since,

Being surrounded by

Crooked smiles,

And stares,

And fire and earth,

And many a gentleman

With thick, white eyes

And pulsing tongues,

Who would pray

I be crystallised

Or pacified for

Their kingdoms.

My Goddesses and I

Do not smile politely

At such proposals,

Nor will we be ordered

Motionless.

You may keep your

Primitive beliefs-

But do not expect us

To be so easily

Defiled.

I am made of stronger fruit

Than the wine you

So eagerly

Water down;

You cannot wash away

Our war.

poetry

The 14:10 train to Amsterdam Centraal

There’s a certain kind of freedom

That comes with jumping on a train

Alone.

Albeit,

A freedom that has an exact date,

Time,

And a popular destination-

But is freedom, non the less…

And I didn’t so much as jump,

As I did shuffle quietly on board.

But as I sit with my fellow passengers-

Or what few are left-

I feel free;

As the view blurs on my right

Outside a fingerprinted window,

I feel free-

Not powerful,

Not invincable,

Not unique,

Just able to go places.

And I think that’s all the freedom

I need.

poetry

Sunday Serenity

 

 

I feel obliged to write

About the sun on my skin,

The ripples at my feet,

The birds in the sky,

Simply because they bring

Me so much joy!

As they do to the cyclists,

The fishers,

The dog walkers,

The slowing runners…

It feels rude not to

Give in to such temptations

As to sit by the canal

And think on the finer

Things in life.

Like the warmth,

The stillness,

The serenity;

To perch on a worn

Wooden bench

And watch wheels,

Count footsteps,

Reflect on reflections,

And capture such a delicate shimmer.

 

I lay back

And feel light like

The touch of wind;

 

Feel spring-like,

Feel alive and well

Like the freckles darkening

On my bare legs;

 

Like the grass kissing me green…

 

This is the life.

 

poetry

Do Something

It’s hard for me to be inspired

By the world sometimes.

I look out my window and

See only rows and lines

And wheels being dragged

Along black and white

Roads,

And I wonder why this life?

Why this time?

Why not one full of fairy tales,

And colour,

And people I’m not afraid to look at?

Why not a world less grey

And full of fog?

Full of routine

And shopping bags

And car keys

And bay parking?

Sometimes I do not want to

Face that world,

But then I run out of milk

And well…

It’s that or no cup of tea.

And I stand in line

And count my change

One hundred times,

And look at the floor when I walk.

Now my feet are cold

And the kettle boils

And I think of everybody else

Going home for a warm cup

Or a warm hug.

I think of others

Maybe they’re not all so bad.

Maybe there’s nothing wrong

With getting stuck in the snow.

Maybe that’s normal.

There are worse times;

Worse lives

Than pushing trolleys and

Takeaways…

But I can’t help but wish

One of them would do

Something exciting

Sometime soon.

 

p.s.

I made a little video for this just to see how it went.

Let me know what you think! 🙂