Writer’s Block (poem #43)

My hands are not full of words today.

There is no poetry to be made from the beating of my heart,

or the frown on your head

that tells me you’re upset.

There are no rhyming couplets on the tip of my breath,

and my mind has ran out of the intelligence

to string a clever sentence together.

There are no poems left-for they have all been written,

the words spread out on a blanket

to share and tread on as gently as the dreams we made together.

Every topic covered,

the genres all full,

and the forms complete.

But as neat as it is to write words cleverly

Sometimes it is better to live and breathe the air-

And make our lives the best poem of all.

The world, my stage (poem #42)

My dreams have changed now.

It is no longer to be a shining star,

the golden girl covered in glitter who bounces about when she leaves the stage.

My dream is to be the best version of myself.

Thoughtful, honest-

clear when she needs to be

and thoughtful of herself and others-

listening carefully to her sisters and brothers.

 

It’ll take time,

and I will fall-

lie on my side stumbling with words as I try to fly through the guidelines,

overstepping the lines

and then sticking to them again,

knowing how important it is to be clear.

Living and listening through every weather-

the extreme, the still, the silent and bold-

Where stories are made, to be shared and told.

 

I’ll learn to dream big

in other ways,

and make this world a sparkling stage

so that I can carry on, at any age.

 

For my dreams have changed-

but I have not.

Super Day Dream (poem #41)

Super mare, super day dream-

it’s a ‘ta-ta!’ from us,

a little sea you later-

may your shoreline stay long

and your future be as sweet

as your doughnuts and your ice creams,

for we are just across the way-

and we will wave, and send our love

my lover.

 

I will miss ya.

Your dogs

and your funny little ways

your aloofness

and lack of functionality.

 

The sovereign centre

and the circles you had around your eyes.

Apple taxis, mascara,

puffer jackets in different colours.

Happy Meals,

The Mercury,

Shake King

and Clara’s Cottage

(mainly Clara’s cottage).

 

Thank you for the summers

and the sand castles.

The wind you put in my hair,

the chlorine in my eyes.

For being our holiday destination of dreams

and for making me feel warm inside.

 

But this is not goodbye, my friend.

For I will return to this Dismal Land

with a story to tell-

and a new one to create.

Roses (poem #40)

You try to the throw the roses away-

but I keep them.

 

‘Why? They are old

and have brown bits on the petals.

They will become unsightly,

and you will not look at them and smile

but throw them in the bin and cry.’

 

I smile

and keep them-

knowing there are still petals tucked away from 5 years ago

in a box somewhere

which grow more beautiful everyday.

 

They are lovely now-

and although they may change

and the petals may disintegrate

they will stay that way.

 

‘A bit like people,’

You say.

‘Yes’,

I reply.

Posh (poem #39)

‘You are so posh’-

they used to say.

‘Posher than the day the queen was born-

and it is not okay that you speak like her and not like us.’

 

I did my best to mould and fit in-

tried to roll my r’s

and say ‘it is innit’

and bite my tongue.

Tried to remember I was really young

and not everywhere is as rigid as this.

and when surviving elsewhere

maybe long words would be a fair advantage

and get me into a good college.

 

Today.

I hear you say-

‘I didn’t like her, because of her accent-

but she’s a nice person, deep down.’

I frown and shrug and sigh and tut

and judge a little bit,

and then realise that you were simply afraid of the life that you didn’t know,

with worries embedded by history,

old wives tales

and a culture of distrust.

 

and I realise now that I have an important role to play-

to display that an accent isn’t everything.

I may sound a bit posh-

but I have the heart of a dragon

and the courage of a lion without a crown on its head.

I am outraged when it’s said ‘the Welsh are inbred’

or are mocked for having lots of sheep.

I am not weak, or soft-just sensitive

and if you ever find me defensive it’s because there’s a lot to defend-

Eisteddfodau, long walks- hearts of gold.

 

and when you visit,

I will listen-

and not mock your accents.

For you are a bit posh-

but you are welcome here.

So when you arrive,

lend me your ear-

and listen to the voice behind the accent.

Paper pen writer (poem #38)

An iPhone 10, you say?

Wireless charging.

No home button.

Either knows your face or doesn’t.

 

And more than ever,

I yearn for pen and paper-

which never discriminates

one face from another

 

Biro in my hand.

Feels a little alien now,

a little too earnest in a world of

tap-tapping the same small square.

 

But it’s still there.

Hidden in a box,

the notebooks wait patiently

as screens shout and scream.

 

And if I care enough

maybe I’ll turn my phone off

and sit poems on pages instead.

 

For romance is only as dead

as we choose it to be.

Sharing, caring (poem #36)

What can I do to thank you for your kindness?

For the words you uttered when I was at my lowest,

and the kind acts that kept me afloat

like a boat in a safe harbour?

 

I could spend my days uttering words in different patterns,

hoping that one of them might make you feel or cry or smile a little.

It would help,

but the words would soon disappear into thin air

or be tucked away so deeply in your memories

that you wouldn’t be able to pull them out again.

 

I could buy you a gift worth all the tea in Timbuktu,

or give you a pair of shoes from a charity shop

That you could wear, and remember me by.

(‘They were 50p!’-

We delight in bargains).

But the magic would wear off

And the novelty would fade.

 

No-

the best thing I can do

is to share the same kindness you showed me.

With a simple smile somewhere, sometime in the future-

or a cup of tea at an opportune moment

when you need to pour your heart out

and measure your life in teaspoons.

With a listening ear when your mind is full of cobwebs

that you need to wipe away-

or with a silly day of walking

and talking nonsense that no-one else would understand.

 

For you have been a guiding hand-

and someday, soon,

I will thank you for your kindness.

Before, During, After (poem #33, #34 and #35)

Before was a blur of lists,

Of last minute shopping trips

Of creams and glasses and sandals and notebooks.

Desperately trying to pull things together

In the worst of weather

And hold on to my thoughts.

I’m trying to prevent them from turning

But my stomach is churning

At the thought of bus transfers

And ’emergencies’

And last minute changes

As my mind rearranges everything in the wrong order

Until I’m in a state of disorder-

The bathroom

No breath

A glass of water

And a ‘you’ve got this’.

I feel like I’m falling to bits-

But I’m still standing

As I wheel a too big suitcase up another escalator

And later I will finally arrive

So I try to sit back and enjoy the ride

And remember that before

Is the toughest part of all.

 

***

During it all,

I am constantly, pleasantly overwhelmed-

Overwhelmed by the cheering on arrival,

And the sheer volumes of people,

And how plush the bathroom is.

I listen to your words,

Overwhelmed by the feeling that you are speaking directly to me-

Completely, personally-

Words noted based on their profundity.

My mind swirls

And my mouth speaks and laughs

And part of me feels like I shouldn’t be here at all.

But I choose to ignore the voice that says I’m not worthy-

And cry, and dance and enjoy the feeling of belonging

In a place that is nothing like home.

***

Drained now.

Words are few

But memories are many

Much to cherish-

Room to grow and glow

And change and give.

Lots has been learnt

So

Sleep and rest

And find a way to apply all you’ve been given.

Use it

And share it

And live it-

And never be in the least bit afraid.

Happiness, located (poem #32)

‘Oh there you are’,

She thinks-

As she feels a little spark of happiness opening up her heart.

‘I have been searching for you everywhere-

In books, on the Internet,

In my hair and stories

And I could not find you.

For a while,

I thought you were lost forever-

Even though I knew that you could not be far away,

And saw you residing in the eyes of friends and foreigners.

But here,

You choose to peek out at me-

Smiling for a second before disappearing.’

 

Now I remember 

That you have the potential to bloom in my heart-

To wipe out the rain and pain

With a gentle sun,

With the strength of your rays warming my heart and lungs.

And even when you’re hidden and tucked away,

I know that you are there-

Simply sleeping briefly,

But sure to wake up eventually.

For it’s always darkest before the dawn, 

As I have always been told.

Scrolling, searching (poem #31)

Sometimes I find myself scrolling

As if I’m searching for something.

But I’m not sure what’s missing.

Is it the because I’m not standing in a sun-soaked Mediterranean paradise,

cocktail in hand and head tilted sideways?

Or that I’m nowhere close to getting married,

so I need wedding photos from acquaintances to fill the void?

Perhaps I’m searching for a jacket or a swimsuit

as multiple adverts seems to suggest,

Or maybe I need to do a test

to find out which Hogwarts house I’m in

(Gryffindor, if you’re wondering).

But the most important question is-

why do I waste moments and hours doing this

when I am exactly where I need to be?

And everything I need exists inside me already?