Author: Charlie Alford

Are you the child that threw stones?
Are you the tremor that shook?
Are you the wind that groans?
That knocked the bird from its nook.

She fell like rain from the sky,
like the leaves in late Autumn.
She waited for her time to die,
though why she could not fathom.

But happy smiles gave her wings,
conversation gave her hope.
She clung to the friendly strings,
through contact she learned to cope.

Sticks and stones will break her bones,
but friendly words will keep her home.

Dedicated to my housemate V. Thanks for the prompt and conversation about 13 Reasons Why which also served inspiration for today’s entry.

Tonights entry is unedited free hand whilst listening to Sheng Cai play Chopin Nocturne Op.9 No.2

She drifts softly
along sweet green grass
memories of home
whispers in the trees.
The whistles of the wind,
the coos of the swans,
and the song of the breeze
fill the park.
The carousel keeps turning,
she keeps watching,
the children laugh,
their mothers gossiping.
Down by the river,
nestled in the grass
she hums pretty whispers,
enchanted by him.
He strides across the lake,
a dark figure
cutting her world,
like a blemish on a painting.
Her peacefulness is fading,
her realness is falling,
the door closes, her eyes
glisten like the ripples of the river
she takes him in her arms
as they turn about
spinning, disappearing
into a watercolour,
she whispers softly,
silently,
nothing. 

I write to you from beyond the ocean,
my situation advantageous.
I find myself with pen in hand,
my urge to tell infectious.
I called upon our dearest friend,
whilst walking about the Surrey downs.
We exchanged pleasant conversation
at the old tearooms in town.
A full account of happenings,
within the Commonwealth and country,
were passed over the jam and cream
in between. tales of the gentry.
I spoke of my play in London,
how Barrie had been resurrected.
I laughed at her dismay of my actions,
you know I am not one to be directed.
Our friend finds the country more to her taste,
she has acquired a shoebox bakery.
It’s a quaint shop behind the church,
but upon my word the drapery!
Now for the strictest confidence,
this is our tete-a-tete:
You-know-who has favoured a certain creature,
shortly to be announced in the gazette.
I asked questions in the usual manner,
but she was not willing to confess.
No matter, I had occasion to pass by the shop,
and found her admiring grandmama’s dress.
Now I bound your silence to this letter,
we must only speak in whispers.
I’ll forward you the refreshed pages,
when we can happily call her sister.

I can always rely on Mr. Moon
he is my constant, my complete focus.
Instrumental in my freeway thinking,
he brightens the deepest navy canvas.
The enigma of our reality:
Moronic questions wield moronic answers.
Making way for tiresome humanity,
especially those every day chancers.
Tonight I am in need of mental floss,
after the stupidest mystery was solved.
The world doesn’t need special characters
when five minutes ago is “oh so old”.
Bring me urban beats of hallelujah,
when they realise high heels really hurt, and
that Mario wears a Space Invader?
I think I’ll join a Mariachi band.
Always relying on my Mr. Moon
to help me navigate my state of play.
His patience paints a realm of reflection,
a quarantine from the longest day.

“Curious”

I think sometimes possibly,
that you could be my blue sky.
My heart and brain swing their rackets
like it’s the final of the Open.
Searching for answers
for something that cannot be answered,
until it happens.
The breathe of happiness
remains uncertain.
I sometimes wonder,
when will you stop
hiding beneath the cloak of comedy?
I wish I knew where this was going.
I’m pretty sure the Cheshire does.
He is a frustratingly friendly feline,
that smells like pancakes and ice cream
and who is as elusive as his grin.
I think sometimes, maybe.
I think sometimes, curiously.