My moods this week in poems

This week I’ve been writing about sunsets, love, motherhood and the grind of the mundane peppermill of life. Among other things.

Poems are the pieces of writing I am most comfortable constructing but at the same time they always feel the most personal. So often they contain my most private thoughts that perhaps I wouldn’t dare voice anywhere else. But fuck it, cause we’re friends, right?

For me, poetry is ‘Language Lego’.

I enjoy pottering about with the ‘red bricks’, the bright flowers, the grey boards that represent the mundane walk of life. You can make word houses, towers and beautiful gardens. You can choose whether or not to have windows, doors, how much light or dark to allow in.

I love experimenting with how sounds fit together, if it’s possible to balance them precariously rather than smoosh them down perfectly. Sometimes- at least in my own mind - a crumbly verse is not only enough but more beautiful for having broken ‘rules’ around rhyme, rhythm, assonance. The way a wild poppy is preferable to an over manicured rose.

Forgive me if I sound like I sound like I might know what I’m talking about. I really don’t. I only studied English to GCSE and only language, not literature. I’m full of shit. I just shove it all in a pretty jelly mould or sandcastle bucket, set it, tap it and hope for the best.

But for all I love playing with poetry and the therapeutic value it holds for me, it can often put me on a massive downer depending on my personal circumstances at the time. I think this week’s batch reflects that. I’ve gone from geraniums-in-a-row to cold blue block to hot red prison…..and back.

At present, I’m on an even keel. For now.

To be continued, eh?

Sunset in a room

Sunset flew in, a bold macaw

Finding voice in blinding red

Spanned bluish room with ruby awe

Binding eyes with burning thread

Veil of dusk skimmed, rose and sheer

Pale pink of cheek the dying know

As last rust embers disappeared

A truce of night arrived in crows

He is

He is the premise of a poem

A wash of words with no real answer

Tender promise of new morning

Moon-down sun-up shy encounter

.

He’s jaded elder, wounded child

Meandering river, young to old

His hopscotch heart skips tame to wild

Fact to fiction, hot to cold

.

He’s fractious mess, romantic kiss

Both haunted lane, and dappled glen

Howling wind and clinging mist

Been round the bend and back again

.

He tastes of summer battling winter

Smells of cedar wood and rain

One day I will know all his splendour

For now, I settle for his pain

Solitary

You can’t make a person love you

Create what isn’t there

Rustle sparks from crusts of dust

Persuade someone to care

You can’t will them to want you

They either feel it or they don’t

The dazzling of their senses

Will be revealed to you - or won’t

Hearts seldom leap in tandem

It’s a twee and baseless thought

For all the games, one fact remains

Love is a solitary sport

Mama is a narcissist

Mama is a narcissist

Plays at being a therapist

Now there’s an empty chair in class

She’s taken you to Mexico

.

I think of when I saw you last

Mid winter light with doting dad

The real bond I know you shared

But Mama’s found another fad

.

A spare seat on the school bus

Where swinging little legs should be

Spent Christmas on a pretty beach

Mama hosting some retreat

.

Mama is a ‘narcissist’

A word misused to great effect

But this one believes all her own hype

An ego marching on, unchecked

.

Mama is self publicist

Always pushing her new thing

Life coach, artist, healer, teacher

Did she mention she can sing?

.

Of course she did, because she’s hungry

For adulation, value, worth

When she’s not your dancing monkey

She’s “gratitude” and “Mother Earth”

.

And what’s a kid supposed to do

Hauled like luggage, as and when

I know your dad is missing you

I hope you feel his arms again.

Should have never been a mother

Should have never been a mother

Never felt it like the others

That pull that seems to make them

Have another and another

Should have never been a mother

Should’ve ran to hills for cover

When I thought it was a good idea

A silly, soppy lover

Should have listened to the women

Who were loudest in their silence

Heeded widening, pleading eyes

That warned as flashing sirens

But we only hear of good stuff

Bedtime stories, baking cookies

And our hormones scream like banshees

So we do it, have a baby

And yes, some mums are happy

But I know that others mask

Smiling for the family portraits

When their darling offspring ask

What’s it like to be a parent

They will gush and waffle mush

Of first words and favourite teddies

Frilly, sentimental slush

Betraying real feelings

To save those of their son or daughter

Toxic patterns will continue

Longer than they ever ought to

Dwindle

When end days dwindle, last lick of candle

Is it possible, I’ll open the cupboard and smack my lips keenly at life’s crap soup?

Get creative with the few ingredients I have left?

Muster energy to rustle something up with  pasta, a jar of pitted olives, cashew nuts and some turmeric?

(Use by dates expired.)

Perhaps in those final days, each stale crust will be Wedding Cake or Easter Egg.

Dancing inside me, sweet celebration

I may discover new found appreciation for plastic cheese slices with their squeaky, garishness.

I think in the end, we all return to basics.

Broth fills bellies better than anything fancy ever did.

How I’ll hold it in my cheeks, a bay, then swallow to feel the trickle of last tides

I’ll take a small piece of bread, roll it back to dough between my finger and thumb.

Removing each bubbly blister of air.

Noticing it squash back down into a tiny ball of beige insignificance.

Groundhog Day

Here we are, the three of us

Me, my thoughts and I

Bitchin’ for the umpteenth time

Until I break and cry

I can’t move on

It’s sinking sand

I slowly lose my footing

Sick of daily bickering

The drain of more head butting

I cross the days from calendars

To do’s I’ve finally done

Paid the bills, existed, cooked

The fucking school run

So many nights I go to sleep

Wishing my life away

So hard to see the point

Of yet another Groundhog Day

Star

I caught a star that fell to earth

Its points leaked light upon my worth

The shine of time, the sparkle mine

The heights of heaven there to climb

And once again, I knew my north

Clouds parted pith and I went forth

The night was clear, my angels near

Shy dawn grew bright,

And, I am here.