Paul Sands was born in 1962 in Erdington, but was raised close to the River Trent in Nottingham. He attended comprehensive school in Selston. He worked from the age of 16 in the IT industry, between playing in noisy beat combos, for twenty-seven years until downsized and outsourced in 2006. After dallying with photography he now lives and attempts to work in Lincolnshire. He self published his first collection of poetry, Ego...Ergo (ISBN 9781471758676), in June 2012. The summer of 2013 saw him publish a second collection entitled Scratch (ISBN 9781291525168) July 2014 marked the release of his third collection, From A to Believe Published in: The Nexxuss Volumes 17 & 18 (March / April 2012) / Inner Child Press: Hot Summer Nights Anthology (July 2012) / Forward Poetry Anthology: Near & Far (Autumn 2012) / Forward Poetry Antholgy Down: Memory Lane (January 2013)
Whitby I come Demeter like silent amid the mizzle save for the sea’s salty breath in the dead rigging an alabastrine jig and reel trails suspended on spectral strings to the gentle pitch and roll of my progress towards the enduring granite coved blocks where I slide under the stoical gaze of twin Cyclops sentinels no mournful bell at sea accompanies me, I live but wraithlike pass over the thronging cobbles to leap some two hundred steps of dripping flag to good St Mary’s broken toothed orchard of stone until at last with aspect overseeing the wild Ness and Burg in the shadow of Dane sacked abbey, I sit where Stoker sat Bod Teircaill stooped below a trail of floury footprints aspic set into the high deep lapis he tires of dancing the up down round of rain above the furrowed ground so Bod Teircaill shivers and with arms arrayed fanned fingers wide shrugs off the Earth catching full hold of Cymbeline’s draught he peeee-uu’s aloft and re-marries the sky We Were Expendable no more rush for the factory gates or bleary welcomes after whistle led race no longer the shouts of “what shift you on mate?” and befuddled replies “earlies, no, lates!” the comforting throng of familial mass at the end of each day that held no disgrace when a days hard work meant a days earned pay something they somehow forgot to replace as our livelihoods fled to cheaper climes and our citadels of labour fell rotting, debased Remembrance that dress may hang for eternity and a day before I let go watch the grim armoire recoil at every mortal effort to steal it’s treasure while not one of these four walls can forget her fragrance as they bleed her scent she who everyone loved remembered even by the rooms through which she moved Midnight Bird these should be such tenebrous streets but puddles glowing, electric day bright, leave a phosphor wake before my feet as church clock sounds its dead of night no feather nor fowl would I expect to make itself so clearly heard yet there it did so interject, the plaintive quaver of blackbird his day it seems, now knows no end, he serenades our non-stop world and chides us so we must attend his rondo in this constant whorl such verve this ebony minstrel brings to his role in this nocturnal choir I feel he’s forced to bear our sins for lighting this eternal fire
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
My Collections (28/05/2015)
sleep the sleep that hate permits (28/05/2015)
that secret (24/05/2015)
New Poetry Collection (24/07/2014)
Hey Poet! Suck This (09/06/2014)
I Remember Bren (27/05/2014)
Goodnight America (25/05/2014)
Nothing But (21/05/2014)
Confession Bowl (14/05/2014)
Siege Engine (14/05/2014)
Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/paulsands
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