Posted in Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, Haiku, Literature, Poetry, Regret, Writing

Darkness

Can Night remember,                                       My cold vintage memories,                           Leave silent hour.  

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 Autumn, blogging, Creative Writing, Dead, Fall, Poetry, Seasons, Weather, Writing

Dear Autumn

Light up my life,

Teach me to breathe.

Night is a blanket.

I need you to see.

Unmask the Darkness.

Cover the cold,

 Through rays of sunshine;

My eyes to behold.

Scatter the leaves, 

Into distant lands,

Majestic colours  into childrens hands.

Through  decay, keep things bright.

The night is drawing,

Out goes light.

Autumn you’re failing..

Hugging the cold.

 Daylight more precious than gold.

Autumn be Summer.

The woman of madness.

of loose morals.

of mischief.

Blooming her flowery buds.

Autumn ,

Be bright,

Be vibrant,

Be there.

Protecting your children with tender care.

Instead you rot ,

Turn brighteness to decay.

You back stabbing beast.

No one wants you to stay.

 Winter , the Ice Queen will get in your way 

The power of icicles jabbing your heart.

The frosty breath killing your soul.

Leaving a trail of death as she walks through the land.

Autumn she’ll kill you if you don’t flee.

Go..Go away now!

Go be free.

~SS

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

Posted in Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, Poetry, Weather, Writing

Rain

An attention seeker. 

Tapping on my roof with little hammers.
Tapp, tapp, tapping. Louder , louder , louder.

Bouncing downwards dripping on my forehead;cleansing my face in autumnal tears as the clouds cry ;  causing  makeup to peel from my face.

You shower me like a baby. Icy droplets shocking my skin like an angry lightning bolt.

Oh heavens how you weep;   grieving for your dead child. Instead washing squirrels tenderly, giggling as you watch them flitter from branch to branch. Taking away your pain.

Giving the rosehips a new coat of polish preparing them for human reflection. Oh rain you cause the mud to grow trapping wellington boots, dragging them into a murky grave.

And yet you still keep bouncing.

~SS