poem with no title

Having just posted a poem about dreams, I thought I would post one about something that has been haunting my dreams for many months now, the plight of refugees. I wrote it in response to the latest dVerse Poets’ challenge, which is to include a line from a song lyric. Mine is from the Sex Pistols: God Save the Queen (“we’re the flowers in the bin”).

from seed to bloom
our journey’s long
who will listen to our song
who will give us standing room
we’re the flowers in the bin
we’re the flowers in the bin
some day soon they tell us
we’ll be free
we’ll be free they tell us
some day soon
what’s our sin we ask them
what’s our sin
you’re the flowers in the bin they answer
you’re the flowers in the bin
babies mothers fathers twins
we will overflow their bins
what’s our sin we ask you
tell us please
our hopes discomfort you like fleas
we’re the flowers in the bin
we’re the flowers in the bin

dreams

This is a quadrille on the theme of dreams, which was the challenge set by whimzygizmo of dVerse Poets this week.

in dreams we are weightless
travellers with no baggage
holding tickets printed
with invisible ink
unfettered by expectation
it matters not when we arrive
nor where our winding journey began
our destination is unscheduled
in dreams we can be winners
not just also-rans

Moving on

Her legs were knobbly boles

jammed into shabby slippers

her swollen feet two massive moles

shuffling along on flappy flippers

she’d lost her lover long ago

he’d found a svelte and pretty thing

she wondered if this girl would know

she’d soon be tethered to his ring

soon she too would feel the rips

appearing in her self esteem

and when she offered him her lips

he’d vanish into someone else’s dream

Travels with Grandad

The challenge from my writers’ group this week was to do a piece on travel. This is what I did.

I’m sitting at the railway station
Waiting for my train
Going to see my grandad
Who’s twenty one again
He’ll sit me on his knee and smile
And talk about his life
Of all the things he saw and did
Before he met his wife
I’ll close my eyes and rest my head
Upon his big strong chest
He’ll tell me of his travels
He knows I like that best
My grandad has been everywhere
He’s travelled far and wide
But home is where he’s happy now
With his family by his side
Sometimes when he’s talking
His smile will disappear
And I know he’s thinking of a place
That’s full of pain and fear
A place in Poland long ago
He didn’t choose to be
It’s where he met my grandma
And they dreamed of being free
I sit and watch my train arrive
Rumbling down the track
And wonder why my grandad
Didn’t bring my grandma back
Some journeys only go one way
Is what he’ll say to me
And then he’ll go all quiet
And lift me off his knee
Maybe when I’m older
I’ll start to understand
Why travelling can be frightening
When the journey isn’t planned

 

 

Another 52 word challenge!

OK, this is definitely not my thing, writing about Death personified but it’s this week’s 52 word challenge from Sacha Black at Writespiration so I’m giving it a go, getting out of my comfort zone!

 

I have kissed many, bitten still more but it’s the ones I just lick that excite me. I love to watch them blanch and crumple. I shower in the light draining from their eyes and pat their hope about like a cat with a mouse. I live in those I don’t take.