#123 Rhyming is Best

This is a poem,
But it’s no fucking good.
Don’t read it, it’s shit,
Try a walk in the wood.

But wait, look hard,
Inside there may be,
A slither of meaning,
I hope you’ll agree.

I love to write,
But poems are hard.
What I’ve learnt so far:
I’m no fucking bard.

But I think what shows,
Is that rhyming is best.
Don’t laugh at this point,
It isn’t in jest.

Without a rhyme,
A poem just sucks.
Although with word order,
Sometimes it fucks.

Did you see what I did,
In the stanza above?
It was sort of a joke,
Random word, crap, dove.

I’ve now tried my hand,
At writing these words.
But I don’t think it’s one,
For you poetry nerds.

But this is my style,
I like to have fun.
No more though I say,
This poem is done.


#111 How To Start?

How to start?

You might say that was the start.
It wasn’t.
It was just a question.
It was what comes before the beginning.
Not the beginning of the beginning,
That’s the start.

It was a start though.
The thing that enables the beginning to begin.
An announcement of intent,
A provocation of thought.
What came before it was the end.
The end of whatever had started previously.

It was also the middle.
The middle of what had happened,
And what will happen.
Of what will happen when I start.

Which I haven’t.

I still don’t know how to start.
(This happens a lot.)
When I can’t start,
I stop.

I begin again,
A new beginning,
The end of the other one.
So this is my end:

How to start?

#87 Home Again

When will you be home again?
It feels like you’ve been gone so long.
It’s only been a few days,
But my yearning has been so strong.

Waiting at arrivals is torture,
Close and yet still far.
I’m staring at those double doors,
Wondering where you are.

I see your eyes, I see your smile,
Joy written on your face.
We both run forward, arms outstretched,
And meet in a warm embrace.

Now we travel back home again,
Which it wasn’t when you weren’t there.
We lie in bed, you fall asleep,
As I gently stroke your hair.

#80 Courage

Often I call you brave,
Or strong,
Or other words that mean the same.
You always argue.
You say you aren’t brave,
Or strong,
Or any of those other things.
You say you’re scared,
Of things that might happen,
And the things that already have.
But its true what they say,
You can’t be brave without being scared.
You need to be one to be the other.
It’s not bravery
To do something that doesn’t worry you,
Or pose a threat,
That doesn’t get your heart beating a little quicker.
And you’ve faced so much,
You’ve faced it and won.
You’ve come out the other side,
You might have been scared,
But you did it any way.
And that’s bravery,
That’s strength,
That’s courage.

#44 ‘Come Fly Away’ (Maverick Sabre)

I look at you
And you’re hurt,
Too many people
Have cut you,
Left scars,
Like ink blots on your skin.
And your own hand,
It’s penned those lines too.

I want to help,
To erase the marks,
To wipe away the ink.
But I can’t.
I don’t know how.

You’ve set walls,
So high around you,
Trying to keep the monsters out.
But you’ve left no room to escape.
I want to scream,
“Let me in!”
“Let’s run.”
“Come fly away.”
But you can’t hear.

#18 Acrostic

When I sit down to write,
Random thoughts fill my head.
I know none of them are useful,
They’re off topic most of the time.
Except, sometimes…
Some useful stuff comes out.

Blueprints for stories.
Lands to create.
Or new people to discover;
Characters with personalities waiting to meet the page.
Kind of my brain to help me out like that when I have writer’s block.

#16 Traveling

I’d like to be a traveler,
Visit amongst the stars.
I’d like to meet the little green men,
And drink in alien bars.

I’d like to see a supernova,
Be at the end of a spiral arm.
I’d like to stand on new worlds,
Soak up a new sun’s charm.

I’d like to breathe in new air,
Feel the wind of an alien storm.
I’d like to have a conversation,
With a being of different form.

I know that I’m just dreaming,
That I’ll die on the planet of my birth.
But I’d like to think my children,
Will travel out beyond Earth.

Their lives will be much the richer,
They’ll live in a brand new way.
They’ll get to be astro-pioneers,
And wander where they may.

#15 Benjamin Buttoning Butterfly

Can I ask you a question?
How can I be
a waste of space,
if I’m a nothing already?

Why do I feel
like a butterfly,
Benjamin Buttoning?
Shrivelling back
into my cocoon.
Beauty gone,
wings clipped,
flight no longer
an option.

I feel
I know the answer.
It’s on the tip of my tongue,
but it won’t come out.
Like the lines
I so desperately strive
to write.
Or the words I wish
I could bring myself to say.

I feel
I’m nowhere,
but is that really different
from everywhere anyway?
I’m spread too thin,
or there’s not enough
of me.

If I could stop,
I would.