Through the Door

This is a poem about teenagers growing up and that stage where communicating with them becomes more difficult and less frequent.

I lived filled with your music
loud clear and bright
thoughts shared
differences aired
worries eased
growing beside you
but everything changes
and change hurts sometimes
and your music fades
the granite patinated strings
stretched out of tune
your door now closed
herald’s crisp tones dwindled
to ring-ding empty echoes
silent and cold
feelings locked in
unshared, withheld
seeking a reminder
a remnant
one last taste
licking the sardine tine lid
cutting my tongue
blood affirming life
so we keep talking
talking through the door

Poetry without a safety net

This is a poem about performing poetry - the need to hold the audience , to make them think. It is also about the feelings of trepidation and ultimately the satisfaction of a successful performance.

Here I go again

stepping out on this tight-rope stage

thoughts and feelings exposed

vulnerable through my own words

and they watch

and they listen

Oh god, I hope they listen

and I look down

no safety net

you should never look down

The rope feels slack

swaying under panicky feet

and I watch their faces

do they smell fear

can they see it in my eyes

will I loose control

crash to the saw-dusted floor

of mediocrity

and I look down

Deep breath

the swinging rope is my trapeze

the fingers of my words

struggle to hold their minds

to keep me flying

soaring through their time

and I look down

no safety net

you should never look down

I’m loosing it

falling to earth

my carefully chosen words

drizzle, randomly

spinning from a rambling mind

but I think they hear me

they fall silent

they know how I feel

They’re with me

I breathe out

and I look down

Can I make them laugh?

or cry

or stop to think

Am I any good

Does it matter?

Here I am

This is me

Centre stage

In the spot

The ringmaster

In control

And I look down

No safety net required

Blank

This is a poem about the problem faced by writers when trying to produce something to meet a deadline - the blank paper becomes a challenge or a barrier to be overcome.

The shuffled-in seat creaks

Chosen pen poised, black ink

Scrap paper scribble scrunched

Broad nibbed blotter doodles

Stark crisp paper stares back

Offers nothing, not a jot

fresh ideas gone stale

and the clock

The clock ticks, always ticking

Its not too hard, just words

Five thousand, just numbers

Use smaller words for speed

Big numbers, little words

Less to write, less to think

and the clock ticks

Nothing doing zip, nada, zilch

uninspired brain empty

Changes wrung

A different pen fine nibbed

Washable blue for black

Different paper lined feint

Pastel blue or beige

and the clock ticks, always ticking

Knowing just what to say

Wondering how to say it

A title perhaps, or

“Introduction”

“Introduction” wrote big, stares back

Challenging and strong

Condensed intimidation by

A single bloody word

And the clock ticks

One more armchair coffee

Bourbon biscuits nibbled

Ginger nuts dunked

Cold water splashed face

Cool fresh air under

Unhelpful darkening skies

Words evaded, delayed

The clock ticks, always ticking

Two more words, together

“The End”

Start and finish found

How to stretch the middle?

For four thousand

nine hundred and

ninety seven words

“The End” stares back

The clock ticks

Willfully blank blank paper stares

past cereal bowl remains

light through still drawn curtains

and the clock ticks

A non-writing writer

Stares back

Blinks

And the clock

ticks

Always ticking