I do not need my friends to come calling
banging on the door bringing with them their platitudes
and childlike fairy-tales of happy ever afters.
I enjoy my solitude – alone is me I get along well, being by myself
Does that make me sound ungrateful slightly the oddball
with my ladder, not all together reaching normality’s floor?
To hell if it does – I can handle that, its people
that screw me up.
Sometimes I think I am a hologram lacking of substance
behind the image
others preferring choosing not to hear what I say.
Therefore,I close my eyes
much preferring the world from behind this shuttered view
of which the solitude is so breathtakingly indescribable.
I know if I refuse to play their games, they will eventually leave
thankfully I am not like them –
at least there is some sanity in my madness.
Please go away I pray; please!
Poppy May 2014 ~xx~
Guest post by Author J. S. Collyer
I sometimes wonder what sparks people off to start writing. In my experience, people decide to start for all sorts of reasons and at all stages of life. Some start penning poetry at 45, others (like me) were scribbling space operas in notebooks at age 10 before we even knew what a space opera was, let alone ever read one. Everyone has their own starting point and their own journey but I know the reason I started writing stories was because I loved to read, but the more and more I read, the more I realised that my novel is not out there. And the reason it’s not out there is because it only exists in my head.
My first novel, a laser-filled SciFi romp called Zero, is due for release this August and it is the first time that a novel…
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full mouthed, like a rattle snake in masquerade
fatalities numbers gathering, in the course of
Can you swallow the sound of the truth?
Or are you absorbed in my words of respect.
I never aspired to wound you – think me not your
butcher-bird perched on high waiting to assail.
As for all who loiter in the realms of your retribution
let it stand, how roses black, dressed in shaded vale
did decompose as a child filled her time –
waiting to be your Daughter:
Whilst sanguine nasturtiums, did weaken to
recollections of distant grey – only to wake outside
the believing of my childhood, extracting nothing
beyond the liberty of my mind…
Poppy May 2014 ~xx~
of me that unhappy child
Stripped exposed –
windward as the rowan tree
the scarlet berries.
Lemon scent, varied
with the smell of spoil.
Your breathe scolding
the space we inhabit.
Rare peaceful interludes – like masked
intruders, infrequent in their callings.
The house always so full of thunder
as if violent red
Nasturtiums did ascend their way:
Poppy May 2014 ~xx~
You asked me if I liked to swim
I replied –
Only when the waters gravitational pull ensnares me in
then I can play amid the icebergs – blowing kisses
to the passing herd of day tripping whales.
Did you laugh at my off the wall retort
lots of people do, well those who stick around
I was left thinking – that you might not be one of them.
Why do most relationships
eventually resemble polite cups of tea
in black and white waiting rooms.
People passing through, hastily bought
sausage rolls ending up being fed to the birds.
You wanted to end it – OK fair doe’s!
Everything eventually comes down to that.
Thanks for your time, and anything else you invested in me.
It was nice (ouch, I hated that word) but what else could one say.
I know what I wanted to say
only well-mannered girls DO NOT swear in public.
GO SCREW YOU: I stood up and shouted; spitting
my tea across the table.
I watched as you went from grey to puce all in the
blink of an eye
How utterly unlike me: as I fell back down watching you
scurrying towards the door.
Damn I must have forgotten to take my polite pill today
tomorrow I shall take two – or maybe even three.
Poppy May 5th 2014 ~xx~
It was all about the girl
lively in her youth:
The seen embraces – the unseen
waiting to hear his steps –
whilst disappearing from his view.
Yes it was ALL about the girl
and how deep she had cut into his flesh.
Poppy May 2nd 2014 ~xx~