Switch Your Groove

featured in the poetry forum July 25, 2015  :: 1 comment

Scattergun out all of those poisonous bullets
whilst sucker-punching that dark cloud
from around your slowly clearing head.
Germinate new energy and adrenalin
way down at the heart and soul’s core,
it’s the middle that matters, always.
Purge and vent the anger and frustration,
then count your blessings and lucky stars,
you made it through and out the other side.
Deconstruct depression, slap apathy away
from your face, put your best fighting foot
forward and brave the brand new day.
Take that bolthole you cleverly kept hidden,
drop the past baggage away from your back.
Time to start over again stronger and wiser,
switch your groove and get onto the right track.

© 2015

editors note:

Anytime you need to give yourself a good talking to, these words would do. Thanks, Paul! – mh clay

Seasons Within

featured in the poetry forum May 20, 2015  :: 0 comments

“But I’m only contemplating…leave me alone.”
she whispered.
Pulling the old, comforting shawl closer
about her salt & peppered hair.
The aching pain became almost unbearable
each second they stood there watching.
She started to rock back and fore, cross-legged
upon the cold, wooden floorboards.
She closed her eyes and listened to the cello’s
playing mournfully within her veins of blue.
Felt the tickle and rustling of the tiny empty nest
perched delicately inside her heart
as the biting winds of her conscience brushed by.
Her brain had long ago given up
upon the agony/humble puzzle…and was instead
busy weaving lengths of longing
into fishnets for catching daydreaming stars.
Temper caught nicely and finally nailed beneath her
as the owl of her soul blinked its eyes slowly
and started recounting the oak ring circles
of the many different Seasons Within.

© 2015

editors note:

Rotations, rings, recollections; the older the owl, the more to remember. – mh clay

Bowdinnia

featured in the poetry forum March 13, 2015  :: 0 comments

There is a land of perfect safety
hidden and waiting not too far away
across the thoughtful footbridge
and through the doorway of daydreams.
There’s a sign just outside the walls
which always makes her smile,
it proclaims in big bold letters
WARNING: People Who Like
To Point Their Fingers, Keep Out!
She’s been going there since a child
and still does on most week days
when he’s in work and the kids
are out of her hair and both in school.
Without it she would simply go spare,
be as mad as a big bucket of frogs.
The charts, maps and geography
keep changing with the rhythms
of her moods, the weather reflects
faithfully her need for peacefulness,
quiet solitude or fun and adventure.
It stretches on forever yet you can
easily walk it in an hour if wanted.
No one knows about her little paradise
for the rot would only follow them in.
She keeps it all locked away safely
deep inside her mind, in that special
corner that she keeps strictly to herself.

© 2014

editors note:

Brick and board or unconscious construct; we seek shelter where we must. – mh

Poisoned Rat

featured in the poetry forum January 9, 2015  :: 0 comments

We found him laying in a back lane
down The Melyn, six or seven of us
barely teenagers and fascinated.
An old English Professor, who always
smoked a ‘Sherlock Holmes’ pipe
whilst walking (And who normally
could not stand the sight of any of us!)
stopped to chat and have a gander.
As we slid a piece of cardboard under
him and lifted him off the cold, hard
concrete and took him over to some
long grass behind a nearby church
laying him down safe out of the way
of angry feet and whirring push-bikes.
He was the biggest specimen that I had
ever seen, (then or since!) about the size
of a size 10 boot and that’s without the tail.
Ancient face all scarred up but they were
all old, healed marks and apart from that
he looked perfect except he did not move
at all nor gnash his ferocious teeth at us.
Instead he just lay there upon his side,
breathing rapidly and watching us with
his shining, intense, clever ebony eye.
We all came back the next morning
but he was gone, body still there rigid
but the spirit had escaped and run far off.
We stole a shovel from a nearby garden
and buried him and Damien said a prayer
and with our little lesson in death over
we went looking for girls to try and learn
about something else just as important.

© 2014

editors note:

Runners in the rat race (some new, others spent) seeking to learn biological truths. – mh

There Are No Apostrophes In Plurals

featured in the poetry forum October 21, 2014  :: 0 comments

“So, I finally got him to answer his mobile phone
again last night and I said to him,
‘Look mate, you cannot have really meant it
when you dumped me last weekend
because the reason you gave was being bored.
You’re a poet man, you could have come up
with a much better excuse than that one.
I mean, you could have told me that there
are no apostrophes in plurals and that it was
all my fault or something brilliant like that!’”

“Hey Girlfriend, that’s clever…what does it mean?”

“It means that he didn’t put much thought into it
because he didn’t really mean it at all,
he’s just being moody and away with the fairies,
artists are like that, insanely temperamental!”

“Cool, so what did he say this time?”

“He said that it wasn’t an excuse and he’s still bored.
Then turned off his phone and Facebook blocked me!”

“How frustrating, he’s really making you work, isn’t he.
Well, you can’t have that can you, I mean it’s not fair?”

“Hell No, I’ve downloaded a ton of Meatloaf tracks,
I’m going to listen to them all night, like really listen,
then write him a love sonnet, play him at his own game.
I’ll have him in tears before I’ve finished, you watch!”

© 2014

editors note:

With Meatloaf as muse, this girl is gonna take that poet down. Shoulda played your apostrophe card, mate! – mh

Now We’re Sucking The Right Nipple!

featured in the poetry forum August 13, 2014  :: 0 comments

I used to sit and watch him
gasp and ‘Arr’ like a Pirate
after taking and enjoying
the first drink of the day.
Drag his left sleeve cuff
across his mouth and belch
like a right old good ‘un.
Then light up a roll-up,
take a massive pull on it
before coughing his guts up
for a good minute or two.
Another go at the glass
to settle his stomach and senses
then I knew that all was
right with the world again.
“Now we’re sucking
the right nipple, my lad!”
He’d say to me winking
with a knowing smile.
As I sat watching his ritual
whilst sipping on my
Shandy Bass can of pop
and chewing on the end
of my candy cigarette,
sagely nodding in agreement.

© 2014

editors note:

True consumers; we will consume all, even ourselves. Suckle early, suckle often, suckle ever. – mh

Dying In Between It

featured in the poetry forum May 26, 2014  :: 0 comments

As I strip through the shit
the tears and the years
I find my strength once more.
With guilt in one hand
and innocence in my clenched right
I face the new day, ready.
This is more than survival,
This has a purpose out-seeding my eyesight.
I wobble back onto my defiance,
and step forward, armed,
gentle flowers will have to wait.

© 2012

editors note:

It’s a balancing act, indeed; to find the way between fury and flower… – mh

Frightened Into Bravery

featured in the poetry forum January 19, 2014  :: 0 comments

“Oh my God, we’ve never seen
anything like it, have we?
The way you jumped over that
table, skidded under the next two
and rose swinging a chair around you.
You were like lightning, I swear
at one point you practically ran
up a wall, an actual wall! seriously.
The massive guy dropped, man
just like a sack of potatoes.
And those plant pots, Jesus Christ
what made you think of those?
They were flying around everywhere.
It took 10 officers to restrain you
and carry you out, upside down.
It was the craziest thing
that any of us has ever seen
you are the talk of the place, a legend.
What set you off man, tell us
come on, we’re dying to know?”

“Well, I was just frightened, you know!”

© 2012

editors note:

Whiskey and adrenaline; bad news. Casual pub crawlers beware the frightened philanderer; best walk on. – mh

Dull, Dull, Dull

featured in the poetry forum October 26, 2013  :: 0 comments

I was in a police cell in Swansea
which I am more than used to.
The walls are usually covered
in all sorts of graffiti
done with pens and cigarette ash
or scraped into the paint.
It is all very familiar
and often quite amusing to read,
helps to pass the hours
and all that.
But this cell was different
it only had 3 words
written in blood
on the back of the cell door
‘Dull, Dull, Dull.’
It really quite shook me up
and I was happier than most times
to get on out of there.

© 2012

editors note:

Routine incarceration brings “bored to death” into new perspective; enough to scare a scofflaw straight? – mh