The Poetry Marathon

Stuck, trapped, gasping for breath,
Slave to a system waiting for death,
Alone in this life everyone’s the same,
Wasting the years for someone else’s name.

Forty hours a week until you drop dead,
Destroys the imaginations inside your head,
Born a worker bee forever enslaved,
Barely a tear shed at your grave.

Fall for the line that this is your life,
You chose the story, you chose the wife,
The lies that surround us keep us in line,
An obeying servant by natural design.

But your mind is free, let it wonder at night,
Escape the prison when out goes the light,
Push your head above water or else you’ll drown,
And don’t let the bastards grind you down.

Unique word count – 95

Kneading the dough?
What I need is to rise
An early start
But the street cries
The sun is yawning
Ready to hypnotize
Not fully there
I sympathize

‘C’mon, let’s go!’
A time to bake
Why we couldn’t do this
When I’m more awake
Already looking forward
To my first break
Two sugars in my tea
And a big slice of cake

So this is life
I’m making bread
To spend and survive
Before I am dead
Until my short eulogy
Is read
But for now
I’m needing the bread

wow what an orgy
of bright flashes and radiation
the dashing and dancing
it’ll leave you white
the distraction
becomes very obtrusive
the swelling florescent
green it supplies
opens my reluctant eyes
while the curs-ed yellows
attack like wasps
eager to burrow into my skin
these lights switch and swirl
abusing the spectrum
distorting the dark
and displaying the sharp
a blue to deceive
the shadow of warmth
but a quick cut through
you find alarm
it’s the red back
surrounded with the orange
and now I see the shape
of something less than
honest
these crowds of lights
I have paid to see
it has washed my brain
and lit up the abyss
but what else
would you find near the sea…

8 Legs Watching

Under the floorboards and in the attic,
Demon insects with hidden agendas,
Creeping out at night whilst you gently rest,
The room is theirs whilst you’re asleep.

Spindly long legs with thin tickling hair,
Malevolently emerge from shadows and corners,
Gliding swiftly across the wooden floor,
Up the bed leg and up on to the covers,
Soft sleuthing footsteps, till he reaches your still arm,
That spider is closing in; he can feel your warm breath.

He pauses a moment and imagines the terror,
Of you waking to see him, the fear in your eyes
He towers besides you, mocking you dreaming he’s in control.
One more step on your neck and his breath on your face,
His strokes your chin with that slithery long leg,
The goosebumps rise up and you subconsciously know,
Something is there watching you stir, with a jolt you awake,
He runs for his life, back under the shadows and into the night.

‘Bent double, like old beggars under sacks’

DULCE ET DECORUM EST Wilfred Owen

Morte Nobilis

Establishment is as establishment was, bent,
Control your freedoms and then tax you double,
Liberties are privileges given like,
Medals for surviving a war you did not choose, old,
Lies revamped for the next generation makes us all beggars,
Forever we remain shackled under,
The heavy weight of bureaucratic sacks.

‘A lesson to learn’, is what they tell me but what did I do to earn it
I remember myself as a child with high energy, I wanted to win at everything and never quit
A regrettable sense of faith let me to this story in my life
The teenage years were fun, far from the normal strife
What grew from that youth was a man with grit n spit
‘A lesson to learn’, will it make me wise.

Poems are Pointless

Fast, quick get pen to paper,
Don’t hang around we won’t have the time later.
Just write the words, anything will do,
The beautiful of life is the chance to re-do.

Words are meaningless so just throw them down,
You’ll be a lyrical genius or maybe a clown.
The eye of the beholder is what it’s all about,
You may get lucky and they’ll be a lout.
Caution to the wind, ignore the spelling mistakes,
We all work off word and spell checker’s great.

The poem is for reading so just make it short,
The time barely matters it’s just a cohort.
Enjoy yourself and just take the mick,
I bet you my word this is the best they will pick.

Cigarette smoke, frenzied chitchats,

Manchester folk in starched pillbox hats.

Ash trays on tables and wise women’s fables,

The glory of the caf’ in the amusement arcade,

After works laugh, always time overstayed,

Men in workers jeans stand at fruity machines

Hookey Street plays on loops repeating,

The good old days, nostalgia’s treating,

Hard plastic chairs, whispers of illicit affairs,

A chat, a gamble, a pint, a greasy fried dinner,

Until home they scramble, purses now thinner.

Grandmother’s wallpaper has seen many things,
Marriages, babies, family gatherings,
Tears of a mother, tears of a child,
A reassuring hand and chastise so mild.

Small sticky fingers clutching apron strings,
Grandmother’s wallpaper has seen many things,
Jelly and cream, egg custard and tea,
Sello-taped packages under an antique Christmas Tree.

Child to Adult the grandchildren evolve,
But a fondness for Grandma will never dissolve,
Grandmother’s wallpaper has seen many things,
A penchant to love is all that she brings.

Twenty years on under hospital light,
The walls are flat and bland, barely a blemish in sight,
Back at the flat we pack up her things,
Grandmother’s wallpaper has seen many things.

Bruised and battered
Surrounded by love
I tried to repair
All that I could

With no clear path
And miles away
It’s easy to feel
You’re a castaway

But this is my purpose
This is my plan
I am more than
Just a madman

I’m here to protect
You are my home
I’m ready to hold on
I can hear the storm.