When there is no money,
What can we do?
What will we do?
We will steal,
We will fight,
We will work late into the night.
We sacrifice all we have
With disregard to the consequences
Which could land us in prison
Which could break our families
Wives and husbands split
With no reason to stay
Whilst we grind, hustle,
Work for our pay
Wading through deep, dark water,
Wishing for a different future.
Day 8 of my “Poem a Day” series
Nothing will feel quite as soft
As a warm snuggle under the sheets
After a whole day tidying the loft
And sorting through our old receipts
Nothing will look as dazzling
As the view from the plane window
When we go travelling
To see some wild flamingos
Nothing with smell as strong
As when you try to cook some thingymabob
Because even when it goes wrong
It will always save me the job
Nothing will sound as beautiful
As the sound of him singing
A sweet melody, so unusual
A special treat that leaves me grinning
Nothing will taste as sweet
As a kiss from the one I love
Our feet tapping to the beat
The stars in the sky shining above
What is a teaspoon?
Is it a tool,
Found in the bottom of the sink
Or the back of the drawer
Strewn across the counter
Half used
Half saved
Ready again
For the next dunk and stir?
Is it clutter,
Keeping the drawer from opening
Living rent-free in our minds
Overwhelmed
7 of the same
Yet none worth throwing away?
Or is it memories,
A moment shared
A problem halved
A lost loved one
A break-up
The British resilience
That everything can be solved
By putting on the kettle
And having a cuppa with a mate?
Without the humble teaspoon,
Life would be a lot lonelier.
The best parts of the day
Are those times between
Being awake and asleep.
Where reality is skewed
And rabbits ride on rainbows
Across the marshmallow sky.
Alarms ringing;
A harsh rush turned into a sweet tingling
By a simple touch of snooze.
Curtains parting
Sun shining
A glimmer across the pillow.
The sound of birdsong
Pigeons and parrots
In the crisp green forests
Slurping up the morning dew.
A soft, sweet kiss
From delicate rosy lips
Like a gentle, swinging bridge
Connecting two worlds
Where both are a dream.
Outside: whole, happy.
Inside: fragmented, broken.
Which is really me?
Nan’s tea set sits on the top shelf.
We don’t know where it’s come from,
Or where it’s going,
But it sits.
The tea set sits,
And we sit
On the cold, concrete step
At the top of the garden,
Sipping our tea
Out of the delicate
Blue and white
Porcelain teacups.
The heat warms our hands.
The rising steam fogs up nan’s glasses,
And we laugh
As she mimes a little window wiper
With her red jewel-painted pinkie finger.
These cups are only for special occasions.
A gift from her mother,
From her mother,
From her mother.
Bronzed insides,
Hugs, kisses & memories,
As when you are with someone you love,
Every occasion is special.
