Poetry Blogs (2012, home)

I hold this flower
In my hand.
Yellow and perfect.
Like European star.
Like my heart
Is bound to this place.
My ear used to different languages,
My nose used to all these smells,
Smells of freedom.
In a continent of so many colours,
Blossoming friendships
And beautiful memories.
I keep this flower alive
As long as I can.
I know it will die
Like the freedom
That leaves us.

E...

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where orange cumulonimbi are mirrored in stagnant rivers

where sleepy eyes blur swaying trees into dancing green monoliths

where the distant sound of crickets serenades the kangaroo’s carcass

where the salty coastal air dissolves onto arid tongues

where mother desert’s mounds hide her faithful servants

where dying gum trees groan as they accept the wind’s embrace

where nuggets of...

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How do I love?
Wondered the struggling eyes,
As sun's rays reached the pale face,
Into another morning of inquiry,
Whether to carry on or linger,
From, perhaps, a hope for two souls,
That had no home,
Wandering around,
Looking and searching,
For, if haven was impossible,
At least a shelter to thrive on,
But to only provide what it needs,
One must let go,
A sacrifice,
For hope to live...

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Is that our home, there, where we hang our hats?

There, where we boil our eggs and stroke the cat?

Knowing each cranny of our ingle nook

We turn the pages of our well thumbed book.

Home, sweet home!, yet, there is still an unease.

Cat-like it comes, our peace to paw and tease.

Close the castle door! Put the kettle on!

This is my chez-moi!, - for, how ever long?

We stand at...

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The trees still sentinel stood

their green leaves whispering

rustling gently in the wood

in the same soft breeze

and I know some summer birds

sang in their canopy

a requiem without words

'neath the same blue sky

that through every passing year

quietly watched over me

safe within Ceredig's sphere

It has been too long a time

since our firs...

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Night.

I am transported by

a narrow orange moon

                and a million stars

                the still cool air

                the silence of the yard

I am welcomed by

a single ghostly owl swoop

                over the sheep fields

                the creak of my gate

                the scratch of my key on the lock

then

the silent click...

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I’m ordinary and that’s ok

Extraordinary is made of

A million ordinaries anyway

I can feel Magnolia

Reflecting sheen 

From her glossy dark leaves

It’s early afternoon

Rays warm my left shoulder

My car window lets just enough in 

The faint rattle in my back seat

Plays a bridge

To the melody of my AC

The turns of my car, so familiar

The rout...

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Letters in Wartime
Words on paper
Nothing more
Telling the story of a soldier
Or airman or sailor
Letters from the front
Sent home 
To a sweetheart
Or family
First read by the censor
Telling of longing to see you
And hardship in battle
Seen thru with determination
And a love of country
Fighting for them
The loved ones
Far from where
He is stationed
Saying about his mates
Some wh...

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Home is where the heart is
but where is the heart
It lies in wonder and glory
Or is it in the fame of society

I can't seem to find home

Is it in the light rays of hope
or in shallow waters of pain
A house never feels like home
or is it just the lonely heart speaking

I can't seem to find heart
for since the beginning
 it's divided
into two part

So maybe i'll keep looking
for t...

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When I have gone

what waits this room

with its vacuum

                where I sat?

Does

my chair sits sightless

musing at my absence

midst space bereft

                   my music play on?

After I have left

ask my empty bed

all sheeted void

                about my dreams

Does

my mattress dent

minding my long night wraiths

maintain my ...

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I finally figured it out
How to get up there pre-death.
I crawled my way up to you
Without leaving my own bed.

I tried to break you out
But they wouldn't let you leave.
I tried to break you out 
To bring you home with me.

I got kicked out of heaven
No they won't let me back.
They said if I ever tried again
To prepare myself for attack.

I'll go back everyday 
If I had the slightest cha...

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Sunset Over Lupset (August 1968)

Lupset sunsets smelled of bonfires,

undercut with new mown grass,

wild mint by the kitchen window,

treasures in the strawberry patch.

Father sat with pint of shandy,

The mower cooling in the shade,

the rake stowed by the garden shed,

the kids with sparkling lemonade.

Summer sun dips on the estate

dragging shadows from th...

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It was literally th eworst 

and my sister says her life is cursed..

The first day we lived their was crap

it certainly felt like a trap

The tennants where junkies and thugs

who tried to sell us their drugs

it started with brian scott 

who clearly lied alot

he showed up late 

he said it was great

and i was left in a state

The plumbing was terribly bad

The place i...

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Grey bin days

Ash spilling

Sparking

From beneath

Buckled

Loose-fitting metal lids

Carried back- breakingly

To the monstrous wagon

Limping it’s way

Around the close

Like a club-footed relic
 

Behind the chipped

Leaded glass of number thirteen

A terrible gargoylian face

Pressed up close

Stares out

Mrs Ashall has seen a football fly over her neat ...

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Home

Keep finding bits and pieces of

Myself strewn across my mind

Only to be blown away again

And what little pieces I have left

Shake and shiver in fear.

Knowing the horizon has better days

I strive onward, searching

There will always be a place

Not a hole, but a safe space

In my heart

For you to rest your head awhile

And know that I will always love you.

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What is that glint

                as the sod breaks and crumbles:

a sparkling hint

                of discovery

                as I dig the dusty summer soil?

This old garden has gained lost treasures

                of man, woman and child for centuries -

                What lies uncovered?

Teased from the clod

                I find a tiny glass heart and this ...

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I.
How does a girl become a woman?
The first time her royal blue skirt
Was stained with drops of blood
Tainted childhood's innocence
Of fertility's awakening.

Rules had chained her feet from crossing
The bridge towards a boy playing
His piece in a saxophone
Lullabies of attraction
A petty love from the ashes of lust.

Chains rang as she heavily walked
Up the stairs of her fantasies
Dre...

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Home is in a lot of places

In a the bottom of a coffee cup, inhaling and looking up to see your friends beautiful smile because you made a funny face.

In a national park breathing the crisp air, the utter contentment of being in a place that is only yourself and the earth, with a thousand days before and after you.

Dancing in the waves, the ocean so a part of your life that your very vein...

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In 'our land', 
which retains its leafiness, 
despite how unseasonably 
a fine few are fallen.

Just beneath fury's fierce flame;
our city's many bridges
a metaphor for so much more
defiantly stand still.

I pray today, it's not just me
who hears them screaming silently
'To join together is our fate
we will not hate, we will not hate.'

4.06.17

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I am made of Liverpool which means it all

Proud and mischievous born for fun

It's in our blood to want for more

More of everything to stir our souls

We're all together when the world crowds in

Ever faithful to the passions that stir

Red for ever on a golden cause

Blues together from across the park

Fridays, Saturdays music and dance 

Laughter, humour on long walks home

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Now the lights are coming on
pink and orange, white and blue
from this distance they seem to melt into an aura
a haze hung above this haunted city

A clock tower looms over the rails
passing through this place I've never stopped here
I know nothing about how it moves or swells or stalls
but the lights all blanket it so heavenly
I think to myself, I'd like to return someday

Always, I fi...

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This poem is for all those still searching for home.

Sailing an Inland Sea

A stark white galley, sail aloft,

Knifes liquid mirrors, softly heaving,

Its pattering stem a story-teller

For fishers caught

On idle frontiers, poised

Between vaults of washed cerulean.

Its Master sighs to distant shores, yearning

For Phoenicia's Thalassa; a place of purple -

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A poem written after lunch today.

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Christmas can be many things to many people & its most feared aspect is probably the way

it can emphasise loneliness or want.  My message is "be positive" & grateful for what you

have, whether it be the company of family, friends or just your own.    God Bless Us All!

.....................................................

I'm meeting the brother this Saturday

When he arrives at Water...

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Baby girl is home

Mom and dad so very proud

Sweet little baby

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eidolic dread horses

have scarred your slumber

and even your furniture

has silent, open mouthed, nightmares

over the too soon dead school friends

who never ended their crossings

where there she stoops in shroud

ghastly knelt as in prayer

and you can’t see through the tricks

of light that scream “she is there”

your crumpling chest  boiling

as the bones...

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CONVERT

Old factory was due to be knocked down and turned into rubble, recycle the materials and use the land again. A new start? Yet this building is structurally fine, a few broken windows and missing tiles, the idea of demolition is okay but you lose the heritage and a piece of history. Is that a good thing? How about doing it up and converting it to flats?

Keeping the building...

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Just audio at the moment!

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Find more posts here: http://haydenwritesthings.wordpress.com/

The Falling Down

The knives and forks
are crossed on the plates
in the kitchen,

two used cups sit
quietly on the coffee table
by the sofa,

the pots and pans
we used last night swim
in a pool of cold water.

It’s mid-afternoon,
the rain lashes
at the windows,
and outside the birch
tree swings w...

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New poem! Also, if you want to read more things (maybe less poetry orientated - reviews etc) then go to my blog, here: http://haydenwritesthings.wordpress.com/ 

The Home

He takes actions,
holds them close to his
chest, feeling their weight
resting against his rib cage.

And the glasses come out
upside down, and sometimes
he rubs the inside with his
fingers to see if...

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This is our final destination:

No Man's Land terminal,

terminating at the end of the lane Cain paved.

This is place is an airport slowly murdering us with boredom

with nothing but dim, echoed muzak

and our haggard,

baggy-eyed reflection in shop windows for company.

This is where we roam:

for anything to hunt and gather

on these barren litter-beaten st...

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On National Poetry Day Jo Bell tasked me to write a poem about being on a train and travelling from London to Manchester and *not* being able to go to poetry events.  I'd just done my first day at the Barbican and was commuting back home.  This is what came out.

Across England there are homes.
In pubs and streets and library waiting 
rooms.
Places I could turn up, call my home
...

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I grew up in a country of

                        fish & chips

                    & 9 to 5.

With jet back hair and dark skin

I stood out sorely at school,

                                at work,

                                in the street.

I longed to visit that place, elsewhere,

Which my parents always spoke of.

The place where I would fit in.

...

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