poetry

We’re picking stitches out of the floor

We’re picking stitches out of the floor…

Are normal people ever this bored?

To the point of self-destruction

In order to feel some direction?

News flash:

We’re catching comas to

Feel alive;

Taking pills when we’re

Already addicted.

Of course we feel the sting of promises

Beneath our skin,

We’re suns just waiting to happen;

Hearts just waiting to break.

Or have you forgotten the power of now?

poetry

Four little teacups sit on the wall

Four little teacups sit on the wall,

And four friendly voices drift on the still, country air.

They sit down by the boats and talk about the good weather,

And family, and how Johnnie from across the way is doing much better.

They listen to the sounds of a dozen little birds,

To the gentle laps of blue water,

And wave hello to those who walk past.

They wait for the sun to disappear

Behind the pier;

To depart down the path,

To four little houses sitting in a row.

poetry

Bury the Hatchet

Bury the hatchet,

Or better yet burn it

And scatter the ashes so far across the sea

We stand no chance of digging it up.

‘Cause I know you,

You’ll get bored and start looking.

At least this way

We can only stand on the beach

And reminisce in what

It used to be.

poetry

December

Wrapped up in bobble hats

And borrowed scarves,

With fluffy socks tucked inside boots,

and hands tucked inside jumper sleeves

where we wipe cold noses

being nipped by winter.

We pop inside for a coffee

and a catch-up;

The warmth from inside steamed up 

my glasses-

The cold from outside frosting up

the windows.

We can only see hazes of

coloured lights and street lights

and shapes of people passing by

with shopping bags and old friends.

Jingle bells play over the clinks 

of teacups and plates

and cosy conversation.

It’s the most wonderful time

Of the year.