Fingers like tippy toes take the dancers pose. Moving majestically across the ‘Qwerty’ circuit my musical musings they interpret. Click-Clacking of cranial cogs my incessant thoughts start flowing. Materialising and showing, the inner voice line by line. The stems of this mortal tree tap the keys excessively to the musical beat inside of me. No question of refrain, as they dance and dance again and again.
Author: Charlie Alford
I like to think I'm a story teller. I love stories. I believe the world is filled with stories just waiting to be told and learned. I enjoy travelling down the road less travelled, with my iPhone and journal in each hand. Here you'll find all my poetic musings... Enjoy!
Clara’s Ballad
You’ve heard the words remember me
echoes splinter through time
quiet whispers in reality
somewhere the bells have chimed.
He met her inside a Dalek
she was full of sass and style
studying every move and trick
parting ways for a while.
He found her at the Rose & Crown
serving the London streets
chasing him through the ancient town
the second time they’d meet.
And then somewhere in the future
a place you and I know
he would find her as a teacher
and travelling they would go.
She went spinning with him in space
a button nose of curiosity
questioning every time and place
but he was the mystery.
Deciphering the enigmatic
whimsies of a mad man
she saw how his life was tragic
but danger had a plan.
They fought the Great Intelligence
and ran from time zombies
he brought her aboard with pretence
keen to know her story.
Leaping into the gold vortex
she saved him from himself
shattering across his cortex
echoing through his self.
She was the voice inside his head
that pulled him from the dark
a shining light in times of dread
a tiny little spark.
Remember me you clever boy
Remember me in dreams
Remember me you clever boy
Nothing is as it seems.
Written for Writing 201 > Hero(ine) > Ballad > Anaphora and Epistrophe
Feel free to share...
An Elegy to inner darkness
Haunting melancholy avenue
a silhouette in foggy hue
weeps for what could have been
while she waited for the great ‘begin’.
Her can of love remained unopened
the voice inside remained unspoken
she never knew how to be
all she knew was how to breathe.
There was method in her madness
There was style in her apparatus
She could see what needs to be seen
She could see inside the in between.
Our very own Joey Potter
but smarter and oh so hotter
She was the brains behind the beak
a genius that didn’t speak.
Clearing the fog of self doubt
and sweeping the shadows out
are done with friends, hand in hand
for only they can understand.
That with every drop of laughter
and every silent whisper
will roll away the darkened clouds
and a life is left, standing proud.
Written for Writing 201
Fog — Elegy — Metaphor
Feel free to share...
Ox
it was party
in the park
Bob Geldof. South Africa.
thrust into the world
found sun shining in
winter in the wintery dew that fell over
my snowy paddock, the morning
glory glistened and sparkled
I spent my childhood
riding the horns of ambition
wisdom weaving my destiny like
I had control over what happens
when I stood alone in my pad
fenced in yellow tulips, shelter my
friends slither between
but they know, if they
cross the fence – my
wrath is all
they will
see.
Feel free to share...
Another Acrostic: Why did you steal our bin?
why did you act unfavourably
have you the swagger to confess?
your duplicity baffles me
despicable street light antics
illicit ninja left us frantic
demons in urban corporate dress.
you cursed us; judging and doubting
oozing thoughts of unpleasantness
usurped after work, we searched, scouting
sucky little ugly goblins
talk about a suburban problem
exterminate from our address.
apprehensive anonymity
lingers like shadows of stress
out of the cracks of the city
unearth a convoluted game
really though, what you did was lame
back, put it back, this isn’t chess.
in the book, look for trustworthy
note, it’s called being neighbourly.
Feel free to share...
Working Together: A Trust Acrostic
wielding words into chat
orienteering our campaign-o
reading, writing, questioning
kinetic-like sheep, I mean people
idiosyncrasies synchronised – it
needs a hall-eh-lujah
grounded and bounded till five
solid hexagon forever.
Writing 201: Day Three: Trust – Acrostic – Internal Rhyming
Trust, for me, is working together as one well oiled machine.
Feel free to share...
Journey Limerick
these small playful characters
are veteran travellers
sounds in every shape
linguistic landscapes
my alphabetic actors
making paper every day
some will go and some will stay
delivered by Sir Snail
a mountain of mail
home after their holiday
they flew by air; sailed by boat
carried by a mountain goat
thrown from bag to bag
“snail mail is a drag”
said the effable e-note’
those small playful characters
conquer cyber barriers
uniting in words
tweeting like the birds
my alphabetic actors.
Written for Writing 201: Poetry. Day 2 – Journey, Limerick, Alliteration.
Inspired by: It was my turn to log the returned mail in the office today. I started to wonder the journey the envelopes had been on… and that’s how interesting logging returned mail is.
Hope you enjoy xxx
Feel free to share...
a water haiku
Feel free to share...
the game
The whistle blows loudly and there you are
kicking and screaming to an endless field
a great adventure for you to embark,
a dangerous game with no weapon to wield.
You can’t go back, there is no rehearsing
experience the moments as they come
another soul just beating and breathing
when you are afraid just hold onto mum.
When you begin your plot is unwritten
it is you who makes you who you are, and
searching the rubble like a lost kitten
will push your head further into the sand.
Head for the stars like the tips of a flame
roar over mountains, bounce over the waves
there is no book to this eternal game
today happened and tomorrow came.
Feel free to share...
An unproductive Sunday
If I were a time or day
I’d be an unproductive Sunday
sleepy with pre-storm glow
wondering where it all goes
deadlines roar thunderous grumbles
flashing my messenger
its quarter to three
all I want is the answer
pretending to write letters
feeling the delete buttons
editing my mind
haunted by the fear
its raining outside
and I am screaming
on the inside
goaded by universal truths
weighing down my confidence
anchoring my thoughts
dreaming of the tomorrows
procrastination’s pal
is hoping for a time out
I am an unproductive Sunday
Inspired by a rather unproductive Sunday. I made a pact with myself to spend Sunday afternoons editing my NaNoWriMo novel, today I failed, as I drowned in plot and blank pages.
Charlie Ann Alford 
You must be logged in to post a comment.