King George

Oh King George. How far you’ve fallen,

The scars so deep and the stench appalling,

Can you hear your children calling?

 

George, you don’t belong on streets so unforgiving,

Here amidst the bins you rot and make your living,

or make your death…only yards from last night’s stabbing.

Street rats feeding on broken ones, easy meat, like you,

Who lived the high life before it all fell through.

The revolution came, the madness and distress,

Now just like Lear you stalk this urban wilderness.

 

Oh King George. How far you’ve fallen,

The scars so deep and the stench appalling,

Can you hear your children calling?

 

George, you limp aimlessly down along these streets alone,

Recalling the glories of your past life back home,

But this is not home…it’s the hell where you’ll decay,

Even now your skin is blistering in front of you.

A proud man, you hate how the way pity all you do,

Stranded, not homeless, northwards your maiden waits,

But Father Time is your enemy. He says it’s too late.

 

Oh King George. How far you’ve fallen.

The scars so deep and the stench appalling,

Can you hear your children calling?

 

George, the little I did to help, it could never be enough,

But I hope it prevented another night of sleeping rough.

I’m sorry that so soon I had to go my separate path.

You asked if I believed in God and I said I couldn’t say,

But you gave me your crucifix necklace and I took it anyway.

Perhaps his belief in God was all that kept him breathing.

God save the King…God save the King.

 

Oh King George. How far you’ve fallen,

The scars so deep and the stench appalling,

I hope you’re with your children in the morning.

 

God save the King

 

The Rain catcher

The Rain catcher, I believed they called her,

Dashing and dancing about in the rain,

Carrying a bucket of all your pain.

Drip, drip, drip…she’d watch as the bucket filled.

She’d never flinch, not a drop would be spilled,

And you’d catch a glimpse of her reflected smile

As you again poured your pain out to her.

And that glistening face could only put a smile on yours.

 

She’d learned to dance so beautiful in the rain,

She loved her sopping hair, her shining knots,

The feel of the drops running down her cheeks.

Drip, drip, drip…she’d watch as the bucket filled,

She’d never flinch, not a drop would be spilled

As from person to person she would run,

So they could pour their heart out once again,

Hoping that after all the storms, she could finally bring them sun.

 

But the rain, it plays a melancholy tune.

The rain she collected, a burden to bear.

And when the bucket was full her dance would end,

And that smile would finally be washed away,

A mask. For in the bucket she’d glimpse his face,

Staring back at her, the source of her pain.

And now she would finally let it all out,

Knowing no rain catcher would ever come.

 

Drip…drip…drip…from her eyes the tears run,

And now as if by chance…out comes the sun.

 

I’m back. Like I never left.

Cider and his Love

Blank stares, deep in thought, blocking out all surrounding din,

Sat alone, brooding, he knew then he’d committed that awful sin.

But what better way to extinguish the fires burning inside

Than sweet juices of apples grown in gardens he grew up in?

Like father, like son, It’s in his blood after all I guess,

To bury it deep down and end the night a drunken mess.

It never works.

He was born shrouded in the the mist and fog, the smog of doubt,

It’s no wonder now, looking back, he could make nothing work out.

So he’ll drown those twisted words, scolding looks, the stupid games,

As what’s begun in anger, believe me, it will always end in shame,

The shame of an empty glass and now an even emptier heart.

But he’ll be back up stronger, you’ll see, you’re wrong about him

He was born in the mountains, he’ll soar those heights again,

But for now let him be to drink as you’re driving him insane.

Love in a Poppy

I sit by the cenotaph, blunt carven list of engraved names,

With bleeding poppy wreath drowning and stained in the soaking rain.

The droplets rest delicately on the petals, dripping by my side,

Tears for the countless fallen collecting at the foot of their memory.

 

Up and down the land, our poppy wreaths will begin to bleed in the rain,

Gifts of love for the sacrifice of those too often forgotten,

Too much blood spilt over decades of war too many to recall,

Millions of poppies on hearts show love for each one soul and all.

 

As a boy, walking up the chapel steps in reflective silence,

The names of the fallen, day after day, would watch me close,

And I’d do my best to think of them, of their lives of mortal combat,

For they  like me came to pray in that very chapel. Sat where I sat.

 

We wear poppies as thanks- that we don’t have to experience such a life,

For all those from Flanders’ fields and Normandy beach to Afghan desert,

For the latest fallen, his fire extinguished, stolen from his family new,

Soon to be returned home in his matchbox of red, white and blue.

 

With that I scour the engraved names, I’ve still not read them all yet,

But I will one day. As long as there our poppies, may we never forget.

Left with a Feather

I feel I have been here too many times before,

Envying majestic birds and the way they soar,

Transfixed on one of them, her hypnotizing glide,

Until she disappears into the distant countryside.

I pull out my treasures box, a feather inside,

Plucked from the most beautiful bird- it’s all I have left

But its fragile beauty convince me it was theft.

The bird of that feather flew away from my cries,

She must’ve died, everything beautiful I touch starts to die

And I don’t know why. The feather here is all that remains.

The birds fan out, a diamond,ready to migrate away.

Neck craned,  I watch them flying over my head with dismay…

But the feather will always gives me hope: they’ll be back soon right?

I’m not so sure, Their moods can never be understood,

I close my fist around the feather. I think they’re gone for good.

 

Dreams on The Pillow

The dreams which had been intoxicating my mind,

Shatter to dust and, on the pillow, lay left behind.

If you look closely you could find every speck,

Sweep them up and then shake the pillow out just to check,

And collect them. Then you hold my secrets with you,

Hidden within dreams that suddenly crumble all through

The second I awaken and know they’re untrue.

Perhaps you could piece them back together again?

You’d find desire not to shine within the heart of men,

But to love and live, to meet and give. To be worthy.

For when the deep dreams decide to descend on me,

I feel self-belief, I’m the person I strive to be.

Then I’m awake once more with my same old flaws,

I rise and leave a silhouette of dust behind me,

The tiny fragments of the person I strive to be.

 In spite of the whirlwind that has been university life the past few weeks, I have finally had time to stop and write a poem. Thank you for reading :) – Chris

Red and White Stripes

Joined at the hand, a pair in red and white stripes,

Not a word to hear as only this memory strikes:

I stare down at my plain old shoes, tattered and faded,

Grass stains on brown, scuffed up, worn out and jaded.

The shoes of one with little care in their world,

One who liked to muck about with ants in the sand,

And tear about the field, a footballer in dream land.

I straighten my glasses, watch them stomp left and right,

The two of us a sea of stripes of red and white.

 

I watch her old shoes stride purposely ahead,

Patterned like petals and gleaming a rosy red,

Flowery white socks below her flowing red and white.

The shoes of one who always knew what beauty was,

Confident, a Reader with a pocket full of daisies,

A face I can’t see in a memory so hazy.

I had to leave then, the memory never ended right:

Turning away.. in my grubby stripes of red and white.