Stop saying ‘my understanding is’ be active and straight with your words Stop second guessing your position say what you need to say, be heard. I’m not going to be here. I’m not going to answer. I’m not sitting around waiting I’m dancing like a sunflower. Courage is not the absence of fear…
Aged council houses in the Home Counties backed onto deep dark historic woodlands haunted by castle ruins and shelters brought to life by village children. At the end of the short cul-de-sac a long footpath disappeared with the night mothers shouted curfew bells at sunset and demanded a return to the light. Do not go into the woods after dark. Not a step beyond the street light shadow. Across the line the boogey man will wait for naughty children who never listen. Do not go into the woods after dark. The flickering shadows are not your friends. The boogey man will come, wait and see and you’ll wish you had just listened to me. Fast forward to the turn of the century this village child became a teenager where adventures went beyond the woodland but never beyond the path after dark. Because the boogey man could be waiting.
Let me count the ways I’m not into you You have enough red flags to line a street But my heart does not care what maybe true she fantasies about the day we’ll meet. Why do you have to be agreeable? You’re like a puppy waiting to be fed love and worth. It is unbelievable that I cannot get you out of my head. But, in the moment my phone starts chirping lightening sparks my fingertips and I type my heart hangs from words that keep it racing while my brain doesn’t understand the hype. In the moment, my heart is into you But in the morning, I’m over it. True.
Inspired by Shakespeare’s Sonnet 141 and one of my fav rom-coms 10 Things I Hate About You.
Where the voice in my head connects to pen Onions of feelings turn into scribble Reaching to pieces I need to question Deconstructing a veteran riddle.
Pour me a glass of the finest whiskey. Oblige me to a bottle of cheese and wine. Endeavour to bring mental liberty. Mend the broken quatrains that jail my mind.
But, a poem is more than verse or song Like the tide it changes with differing eyes Understand it’s not something to get wrong Each one has a way of seeing the sky.
Be the message you want to tell the earth Excite, amaze, and know your worth.
Alone upon the mountainside
Our hero hid and cowered
Born of Dickensian yuletide
He persona was rather dour.
His sandy hair was stiff as straw
His hat feeble and frail
His feet cemented to the floor
cold on his mountainside jail.
Glaring down into the valley
He chided his creators
Captivated infinitely
Upon a sea of haters.
Alone upon the mountainside
Our hero watched and wondered
Weathered, beaten, and cockeyed
What life had he plundered?
Charlie Ann Alford 
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