The last time I saw double…
Oh my, was I in trouble.
My eyes rolled inside my head
I don’t remember what I said.
I wished my lungs to keep breathing,
but my heart was over beating.
I only remember one small thing;
jager-bombs won’t give me wings.
San San Poem:
She stood upon Chelsea’s streets
thinking of yesterdays ghosts
as they age like fine wine.
Stories are where her ghosts meet
to share wine and a Sunday roast
drawn on an ageing page.
Chelsea is her family’s spine
Chelsea is her stage.
Slow and steady wins the race remember the tortoise and the hare wait for the opportune moment time will get you from here to there. Regret is for those who didn't try they say it's never too late tomorrow will knock at the door today cannot wait. The early bird catches the worm but the second mouse gets the cheese a journey begins with a single step and an acorn becomes a tree. A dream you have will come true do not fear what you don't know the simplest answer is to act through action you will grow.
An A-W found poem built from Bill Bryson's 'Mother Tongue' index. Anglo-Saxon barbarian tongues cursed tablets of double entendres. Elizabethan, faggots in gravy graffiti Henry V. Identity; Johnson and Americanisms kinship finds literary masters. Meanings; natural history of our language, private language. Questions rhythms, rhymes, Shakespeare, so trust an Englishman. Universal language vulgates Westminster, Wales & Washington.
Night has fallen, the hum of electronics hover in my eyes the vroom of weary cars sigh in urban driveways the crickets begin a creekside melody amidst the whooshing of a passing 747 as I lie here my heart thumping my stomach gurgling my throat scratching my eyes tearing my insides screaming. I'll wake up properly tomorrow.
In darkest London all that is solid melts into air the greatest mysteries of the modern world fall into the electric mist of hunger games and fairy tales. Time travellers made in America are catching fire in a restaurant at the end of the universe. Prompt: Write a “book spine” poem. This involves taking a look at your bookshelves, and writing down titles in order (or rearranging the titles) to create a poem.
The mother tongue inside my head was made in an English hamlet she a built a world, on words she read and followed the white rabbit. She never knew who she was although she knew her name was Alice but she kept on going without pause and took her place in Hatters palace. She drank tea with a squeaky mouse and spoke riddles with a Cheshire she grew to big for her house and loved the people that met her. The mother tongue inside my head is a lot like little Alice she listens to every words that's said high in her urban terrace.
It's raining orange and yellows the wind whistles in the air and as I wonder about tomorrow there's a hibiscus hiding there her colourful little petals shivers under the wooden chair waiting for the wind to settle but Autumn is in the air.
Handshakes creating a storm
The toll is certain to rise
I wonder about this year.
A thunderous start to the year
“What’s that?”, their loud voices storm.
Darkening our hope for sunrise.
The truth comes with the sunrise
what is the story, this year
friend or foe, I hear the storm
… a storm will rise this year.
If you are a serial singleton and you dance to a spinsters sound then February most of all is the cruellest month around. Society turns to the brightest red raining chocolate and jewellery everyone has a lobster well, except people like me. They'll link their fingers and profess their love hog all the good eateries cock their head and ask out loud Is there something wrong with thee? Because in the month of February when society is pairing some of us are all alone and have lost all sense of caring.
Charlie Ann Alford 
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