Posted in Creative Writing, English Literature, Free Verse, lush, Poetry, Writing

Musings from a bath

​Let me sink into to your scarlet blue , and lather my breast plates golden moonlight, whilst I catch the swirling stars. Lather me in dust till the golden pearls drip from my naked frame. Smother me in your colour until I become a creature , an arching goddess whose eyes are as blue as the Atlantic, voice as smooth as honey.  Let the Gods massage silk into my spine until I bleed golden droplets.

Let them bathe me oils until my skin melts away leaving my golden form ,still like darkness. Oh let them weep! Let them decorate the sky with sparkling  tears. While I lay frozen in a sheet of ice. Stars surrounding me and giving me wings.

Let my fly to the heavens and make a home on the moon.

Posted in Creative Writing, English Literature, Photography, Poetry, Romantics, Sunrise, Writing

Siren of the sky

The master of hide and seek , taking refuge behind buildings and trees. Glowing like a medal in the distance; ruining the game.

A flash of lights as vision becomes blurry , head dizzy. Sparkles glowing. A siren , whose eyes lure you; burn you with kisses and leaves a red love bite which remains forever ;creating a glowing reflection. Don’t blink, don’t look away.The siren of the sky  will ache from the heavens and spread a curse.

Frosted tears will spread darkness causing the tufts of grass to turn ashy and weep with icy tears.

Until the siren melts away the grey, creating a colourful haze. Oh eternal siren burn me until you have no fire left. Kiss me until I transform into ash. Your beauty will whip me eternally until you fade into your hilly home.

Oh Siren of the sky, you beauteous form will caress me until my end is neigh. Golden Siren of the sky.

(Apologies for not posting I’ve been very busy with Christmas, I hope you all had a good one too! Happy New Year.))

Posted in Creative Writing, English Literature, Martian Poetry, Poetry, Writers, Writing

Writers

Mechanical robots of words,whose heads are stuck in the clouds of ideas ; in between piles of half read books listening to the eternal whisperings of authors.

Hands always flowing with an inky substance always smudged. Whose eyes act as spies, delving into the pasts of heroes, villains and lovers; their tales vast and lives many.

 Brains scattered with lightning ideas that fizz and pop, come and go . Wake you up in the night causing the ink to leak onto the bed covers.

Whose very existence lives on the taste of paper and never ending cuts. Draining the words like Dracula then placing them back to life like Frankenstein.

Their thoughts and creativity will never die.

The magicians of life.

Posted in Atonement, blogging, Britishness, Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, English Literature, Fall, Heartbreak, Literature, Remembrance, Soldier, War, Writing

March To The Cenotaph

Today I attended a remembrance service, my grandad fought in the second world war and died in August this year. My Grandad wrote poetry inspired by his experience during the war , here is  one of them.

Who are these men? These quiet men ,       Who march with their heads held high,             With the band a-playing and Standards flying,                                                                           They march so proudly by.

They march to pay their quiet respect,            To the comrades they saw die,                             Midst shot and shell at the gates of Hell,           With their utmost they did try,  To save the world for anarchy their sole and single aim     But so many stayed in foreign lands, forever to remain.

These are the men who fought in tanks ,           And are of many ranks,                                           For an Eighty-eight could see no stripe or crown,                                                                           As it brought death and horror down.

So these quite man, who march today,              And think of days gone by,                                    Will think of friends long passed away ,            And say a sad Good-bye.

Don Faulkner

48th R.I.R

Posted in Creative Writing, Emotions, English Literature, Fall, Free Verse, Literature, Nature, Photography, Poetry, Seasons, Sunrise, Writing

Sunrise

Like a yawning bird,

Spreading its wings through a cloudless sky,

A child reaching for its mother,

Waking up the nesting birds,

Your golden haze  silhouetting blackened trees,

Whose bones are bare.

You stretch through the branches,

touching  your awaiting audience spreading a rosy glow to their cheeks.

A beaming smile to their faces.

Day is finally here.

A beacon of hope .

Of new beginnings.

And light.

Sunrise.

Posted in blogging, Creative Writing, English Literature, Heartbreak, Literature, Love, Memories, Monologue, Poetry, Relationships, Self image, Stories, Writing

Lover at the opposite side of the road

Lover at the opposite side of the road..

God , there’s so many things I want to say to you right now.

How the sight of you makes me dizzy, makes my head spin wildly like a glitter ball on constant. Even on your darkest days or the time when you walked into the lecture hungover with a black eye I found presence beautiful like a glowing angel, my eyesight not affected by the flaws in your facial appearance.Or what other people would consider facial flaws. Like your huge forehead for instance to me ,it’s not huge, to me it shows your capacity for knowledge.

 What secrets lie inside there. What do you think when you look at me? Do you find my fried egg boob’s attractive or are you put off by the size. Do you even look there and even if or when you do you shouldn’t! It’s not gentlemanly of you. Do you ever think about me stripped naked? Would you like me to be naked in front of you , lying. Our skin pressed together , feeling our heartbeats intertwined. You skin would feel like gold to me if I ever got to brush my hand upon it once, once would be enough. Your mouth would taste like heaven sending me off to an erotic ecstasy. 

My pain would be melted away by your soothing whispers, like chocolate dripping down sealing every crack.

And when your tears hit your cheeks, they would burn my body,

 causing bullet wounds. 

I would cocoon you in my arms protecting you with my armour where nothing would enter.

When I blink you’d disappear because you’d no longer be waiting for me.I could no longer say everything I wanted to because you wouldn’t be there to listen and even if you were there to listen I probably wouldn’t be able to get the words out. 

Because I mean nothing to you..

Yet you mean everything to me.

Lover at the side of the road.

Posted in Advice, Comedy, Creative Writing, Dead, Drunk, Emotions, English Literature, Free Verse, Growing up, Humor, Humour, Hungover, illness, Love, Memories, Monologue, Poetry, Regret, Sarcasm, Spoken word, Stories, Student, Theatre, Writing

 Hungover on poetry

Hungover on poetry,

It’s wrapped around my eyes.

I’ve drank it buckets.

Now I see the Light.

Head pounding,

Eyes hurting,

Throat sore with speech,

My eyebags are dark.

Like images of words,

that I now see.

Was the poetry spiked?

 Did I lap up too many,

too quickly?

Yes.

Over too soon.

Did I trip over?

The words.

Did they  make a fool out of me?

Yes..

But I can’t remember a thing.

Words , oh words . Oh God please stop!

There’s  vomit  on the doorstep,

My shoes ,

My hair,

The clean bed sheets,

And the toilet seat.

I shouldn’t have mixed mixed  Carol Anne Duffy, with my own special brew.

Or let others give me shots of

Poems.

I should have closed my mouth

To stop the migraine.

The litre of water last night wasn’t enough.

To cure the poetry hang over.

Breakfast might make it better.

Still more words .

On the box.

Sickness is growing and I can’t stop the din.

The words are louder, 

Caving in.

Dead on my bed, 

I can’t find the cure.

Drink some more poetry.

That might stop the sore.

Posted in Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, English Literature, Love, Love letters, Marriage, Monologue, Poetry, Regret, Relationship, Stories, Writing

Valentine

I’m not giving you a heart or a beautifully penned poem.

Wrapped in a brown parcel;

  an onion.

Like the moon shedding light onto your darkened world.

Multi layered, complex , hard to unravel the mysteries of a woman.

 You peel trying to undress her;

Feeling the curves of her smooth bottom, breasts, hips. Undressing love, until there is nothing but a twig.

Shatter her in half.

You will feel the sting burn your eyes. Tears. Trembling reflection.

The fiery kiss will leave you with an urge for more. An addiction;

 Leaving her breath , the taste of her love on your mouth for days.

Faithful, like we are.

As long as we both are.

Shrink  it to a wedding ring, if you want.

Leaving the perfumed scent on your fingers for eternity.

Everlasting.

Murderous.

Clinging to you.

 Your life.

Your knife.

~SS

Posted in Animals, Creative Writing, English Literature, First poem, Humour, Media, Monologue, Poetry, Theatre, Writing

The monologue of a sexually frustrated half goat man 

I don’t think I can ever rid myself of the shame..Goat legs. It’s not that they’re hairy, monstrously hairy. I’m actually half goat..My mother could never explain why or the doctor. They just looked at me and sighed..Some sort of genetic defect. There’s one thing about being a goat I can’t stop eating..Or the other thing where two bodies merge into one. I haven’t had a lot of that recently with a human or goat for that matter. 

Maybe it’s the legs, the hairiness seems to put them off a bit..Or is it my hoof feet. Or maybe it’s because women have something against bestiality; Belle commited that. The one from Beauty and the beast. I suppose despite various anger issues money always wins.

I’m currently unemployed,I got fired from my last three jobs. The first job the telephone wires seemed very tempting resulting in the network going down for several days. The second job I may have eaten a computer screen..I was hungry. Then the last job…Well I may have accidentally shagged my bosses wife. She was blind, very ugly I suppose that’s the beauty of being blind you never have to look at your own reflection. Other people have to suffer the pain. 

I was desperate, she was too..It was like animals at the zoo. The goat hair and the lipstick stains scattered over the table like confetti at a wedding.

Then her husband walked in.

~SS