Nowhere and back again

This poem talks about the journey into and then back out of depression. I’ve been there, read the book, got the T-shirt, cried the tears. Oh Yes – I know the way to nowhere and I’ve had to learn the way back.

Anxiety skulks in

Through the chinks of normality

Lurking un-noticed

Hiding in corners of the mind

Gaining strength

Feeding on itself

Undermining reason

Just a small spark

Fuelled by uncertainty

Consuming belief

Doubting even doubt itself

The spark ignites a fuse

Bonfires in the soul

A dark rocket bursts

Showering its shards of despair

A nebulous crescendo

Of pain, of fear

Of nothing, of nowhere

A blinding flash

Of darkness

Leads you into

The void

A place of nothingness

Not even fear

Just darkness

Darker

Deeper

Colder

Engulfed

A living death

With no way back

Imprisoned in oneself

Nowhere going nowhere

One day hope steals back

Seeping through the pores of despair

A silent blossoming

A faint whiff

A ghost of a scent

A little healing

A little light

Almost lost against the enormity of hurt

Given time, lots of time

The scent of hope pervades

Settling in corners of the mind

Gaining strength

Feeding on itself

Undermining nothingness

An exit

A way forward

Something grows

A vision

Clearer

Stronger

A future

It will come

And maybe

Just maybe

It might linger

Something

Another poem for Maggie. Don't need to say anything more. 

There’s something about your eyes, 

the way they move, 

the way they smile, 

something about the way they look at me.

There’s something about your voice, 

the way you talk, 

the way you laugh, 

something about the things you say. 

There’s something about your hands, 

the way they hold mine. 

Something about your hair,

catching the light, 

catching my eye. 

There’s something about the way you walk, 

the way you stand, 

Something about the things you do, 

and there’s something about .... 

Something about, 

the who you are, 

the who I am, 

the who we’ll be. 

And all the somethings, 

about everything, 

about anything. 

All the somethings, 

they all add up, 

add up, 

to everything, 

everything. 

And that’s what I love about you.

Seahorses

This poem is about how things were when I was at primary school. I've changed the name of the teacher but he could be one of thousands. We no longer see his harsh methods as either acceptable or effective but when people were brought up in such times and did as was expected of them did it make them bad people? I don't really think so.

Mr O’Brien

Sir to you and me

Had a strap

A collection of straps
Different colours
Different lengths and widths
All stung outstretched hands
When Mr O’Brien spoke
Everybody listened
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
And he had seahorses

Mr. O’Brien

Stood straighter than straight
He had two pens for marking
Red and green
Hard and soft
Red crosses stung hands
Green a chance to correct
Good! Meant good!
In any colour

Mr. O’Brien
Taught right from wrong
Imposed his discipline
With fairness
In an old fashioned
Outdates, discredited way
Mr. O’Brien was never wrong
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
And he had seahorses

Mr O’Brien
Taught what he knew
Knew what he taught
Held his beliefs firmly
Led by example
Cared deeply
Seldom showed it

Jack O’Brien
Was an old man
With steely eyes
Age set free a thin
Wry smile
And bent his once
Rod straight back
And his hands shook
As he spoke
and he spoke of the past
and the pupils he taught

When Jack O’Brien spoke
Everybody listened
No more straps
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
But the seahorse
Were gone

Reawoken

Yes I can do romantic - wrote this one for Maggie 

Happy Valentine's Day XXX


I'm awake
Not un-sleeping
But awake
More awake than ever
Awake to today
Awake to tomorrow
Awake to life
Awake with your voice in my ears
Awake with your smile on my face
Awake with your hair in my fingers
Awake with your fragrance in my mind
Awake with your taste on my lips
Awake with your wonder in my heart

You may sleep
Wrapped in my arms
Head on my chest
Breathing shared air
Skin under my skin
Scent on my body
Warmth by my side

I’m awake
Watching, dreaming
Hoping, holding
Shielding, protecting

I’m awake
Don’t ever let me sleep

Not Like the Rest

A true story, very sad and a reminder of how society (government really) can let someone down. This was the ultimate failure of "care in the community". It still happens.

Young, slim, pretty 

Shiny black hair
In satin waves

Freshness of youth

Delicate features

Fragile like the mayfly

A shy nervous smile

Flickers briefly

She looks much like the rest

And she walks and talks

Just like the rest

She tells me her story

Reads me her poems

Glimpses a future 

Inside she struggles

Stresses and worries

Insecurity, plagues her like locusts

Eating confidence, consuming spirit

An empty bottle, beached

On life’s shore

Forgotten, a lonely, abandoned lamb

To face her wolves

And she hurts

“What about me?”

“What about me?”

“How should I feel? I don’t matter”

Not like the rest 

Doctors diagnose, plan intervention

Prescribe medication, a hospital bed

Nurses monitor and report

Administer the treatment

Provide some care

Nobody really listens

Nobody really knows

Or understands

So she remains

Hospitalised, medicated

Pacified, stabilised

Tranquilised, desensitised

Monitored, protected

Contained, controlled 

How does she feel?

She can’t explain

Then how could she

Doped and drugged

Her feelings blanked

Smothered and flattened

And they

Can’t explain

Then how could they?

She doesn’t look ill

She carries no mark

She wears no badge

They say she’s recovered

Finished her treatment

She’s not so sure

They send her home 

Parents plead

A mother knows

She’s not ready

She’s still hurting

She still needs help

Her bed’s allocated

Her budget’s spent

Her resources gone

Released, discharged

Just like the rest 

Her care in the community

Her one brief day 

Of freedom

They came too soon

Unwittingly created

A torment too far

On a bridge

She pauses

No samaritans

No witness

No mothers arms

She’s gone

A solitary column inch

She didn’t matter

Not like the rest

And did those feet?

Here's my newest poem. I'm not what you could ever call a patriot, I've always felt that it is people that matter, not a state. This poem says a little about how I feel.

 

And did those feet in ancient times?

Well did they?

Did their walking

Their fighting

Their belief

Bring us here?

To a land of boom and bust

A land of us and them

A land of me, me and me

And did those suffragettes

Fight for our excesses

And did those soldiers

Die for our bankers

And was democracy

builded here

for the haves?

And does the state protect

The have-nots

And like the small child

Asking forlornly

“are we there yet?”

There could only be one answer

Weaving Words: Chinese New Year

Weaving Words: Chinese New Year: To celebrate Chinese new year we are having a change tomorrow, we will meet in the library as usual at 5.30pm and have a workshop on the Yea...

Just Poets "open mic" at the Baum, Rochdale

Just Poets are running their next open mic night on Sunday evening, 8th January 2012 at 8.00pm.

The session is always fun with a wide mix of poets and some music.

Best to arrive a bit ahead of the start time to get drinks from the bar and then head to the upstairs room for the session. Come and join us!

Weaving Words - Rochdale

Weaving Words is Rochdale's creative writing group meeting in the Wheatsheaf Library at 5.30pm on the second and fourth Monday of each month.

The next meeting is on Monday 9th January 2012 and will be held in the room by the Maskew Collection upstairs in the library. The theme for the meeting is "New Life" and you are invited to bring along something written on the theme to share with the group.

There are regular workshops with those currently planned including;

23rd January - Chinese New Year - by Julia
27th February - Poetic Forms- by Sam
26th March - Fictional Monologues - by Maggie

All are welcome and details are also updated on our Facebook Group "Weaving Words"

The beige and the greys

I was having fun fun thinking about at the way that older people tend to wear grey and beige and had the idea that Littlewoods, BHS and Greenwoods were pushers getting the older generation hooked on those colours - so here it is, another case of thinking too much:

There’s a new drug in town

Unscrupulous dealers skulking

Behind pseudo respectable facades

Littlewoods, Greenwoods, BHS

Pushing the beige and the greys

When you walk a little slowly

See a little less clearly

Hear a little more quietly

They’re on to you

Chasing the grey dragon

Advertising, peer pressure

They’ll do you a special deal

An offer you can’t refuse

Half price on pension day

Vouchers at the bingo

You think you’re in control

With defiant splash of colour

You think you’re one of us

Once bitten you’re hooked

You’re one of them now

Insidious beige and greys

You’ll blend in, fade away

Another lost generation

Colourless, powerless

Gone

And the dealers move on

Regroup and adapt

To younger victims

A beige hoody in Topshop

Grey Kickers in JJB

Don’t give up

Fight for your brights

Resist the bland

Dump the dealers

Don’t be colourless

Powerless

Done

Big Print

Ever noticed how when you get to my age you need to hold things further away to read them, and then the text gets too small. There are two solutions bigger print or glasses. Of course sometimes we just try without either. If I wear my glasses I can't see anything more than a few feet away so for poetry performance it has to be the big print:

 

Squinting, me?

I don’t think so!

It’s not me

It’s just the light

It’s too dim

Wrong sort of bulb

My eyes are fine

Reading at arms length

I don’t think so!

It’s not my age

It’s just the print

Poor quality

Wrong type of paper

My eyes are fine

Using big print, me?

I don’t think so!

It’s not me

It’s just the font

Big by nature

Default style

My eyes are fine

Got a prescription, me?

I don’t think so!

It’s not my eyes

It’s just the optician

Has to say something

Earn his pay

My eyes are fine

Giving in, me?

I don’t think so!

It’s not my eyes

The glasses?

They look cool

Distinguished

My eyes are fine

Going grey, me?

I don’t think so!

Can’t see it myself

My eyes are fine

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