April was a battlefield
weighed and found wanting
Easter, Spring, falling forwards
no, here it fell backwards
inspiration lingering
behind the green gauze
of a stagnant mind
that smelt of coffee
and stale biscuits
stone the crows for sleeping
in frosty single digit
shivering mornings.
a writers hand
suspended in motion
as her brain defrosts
with communications slowing
experiencing
technical difficulties.
It’s suspended reality
above an open valley
breathing the serenity
in awe of the immensity.
Urban eyes sense tranquility
sense the natural harmony
far away from the city
a refuge washing over me.
Stationed
suited soldiers
watch the battlefield
thunder
roars, rattles
through moving metal
bells
ring loud
commences the fight
to exit trams
at peak hour
I am a canine Sherlock
a bouncy snowy white
rising when the sun comes up
ready for the fight.
I search the perimeter
check on my family pack
they are always sleeping
while I am securing the back.
Winged enemies taunt me
as they hop along the fence
fluttering out of reach
I have no defence.
So I bark across the garden
and trip over abandoned shoes
try to alert my people
but they don’t have a clue.
They shout my name plenty
from the warmth of their beds
Jasper snoring loudly,
but waking him is waking the dead.
My name is Ollie
I am snowy white
I’m the leader of my family
and my barks worse than my bite.
Charlie, Charles or Chum
whispered ‘Carpe Dium’
in an empty wood
going nowhere, she stood.
justice at what cost?
All that’s left is Winters wrath
the game now
something that happened
the silence
reflections haunted
the show goes on
humanity’s last bow
tainted forever
Inspired by the bards birthday and it being St Georges Day in England. Love my homeland…
My soul searches all the small ancient nooks
but the verbal spaghetti isn’t clear
despite the exhaustive amounts of books
I say, Happy Birthday Mr. Shakespeare.
England’s heart beats for you and our St. George
April twenty-three painted red and white
stories of dragons falling to his sword
and your words immortalised in the night.
The sun rises and we are still breathing
ancient castles, vast woods, and national pride
shaping the might of Albion’s dreaming
twisting and turning along with the tide.
I am a child of this lovely island
with her future out there on the horizon.
Found myself on
level heaven
under the welcome sign
sweets in my eyes
heart racing
one second
test me on
sadistic truths
tortured shot
outing my pain
drums in my brain
am I really here?
yesterday’s fear, gone.
Tonight I came home from work and realised I’d forgotten to buy tea (this is a disaster for us British folk) and Air Supply “All Out of Love” started playing in my head (I’m random like that). So tonight I wrote a poem that can be sung (badly) along to the tune of the aforementioned song.
Feet on the cold floor with my head by the door
thinking of you all day
I know your lost too but who knows what to do
bewildered in urban grey.
I wish you’d come home and forever stay
if I could I would let you grow
It would take me some time, and plenty of wine
but I know how from that show, from that show.
I’m out of you tea, I’m so cold without you
Where are you right now, escaping without me
I’m out of you tea, I can’t live without you
I’ll go to the shop and exchange some money.
I found you at the shop and carried you here
placed you among the fruit and nuts
my hand goes to you, get ready for the brew
the door is about to shut
I can smell your leaves at the end of the cup
as I pour the water on
your smell drifts over, like the cliffs of Dover
the lovely place you are from, you are from
I’m out of you tea, I’m so cold without you
Where are you right now, escaping without me
I’m out of you tea, I can’t live without you
I’ll go to the shop and exchange some money.
Charlie Ann Alford 
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