One day I might live up to being a toy character (spoken word poem)

One day I might live up to being a toy character

out of paw patrol

or hey dougie

A wizard or witch who has mastered the

art of magic

instead of tragic

rock star

or a burnt out old poet

maybe I will be reincarnated as Pegasus

to fly on by

in the clear blue sky

with fluffy clouds

one day I might be a superhero of my own making

in a graphic novel

or a saviour of person trapped in a hovel

I am definitely in awe

of people who aren’t bores

what are we if we can’t dream

of being better?

and writing our own stories and letters

to our imagination.

Atlas

It tares apart like paper
born from a saviour’s verse
The devil doesn’t mind, she makes it worse
I collect the curses
I recycle them like newspaper
rhetorical rhymes
in my life of grime.

I shine like the steeple of church
but I’d rather be the birch the trunk of a tree
for this a goddess induced reality
Wisdom causing minds full of incoherent clarity
I lose my faith wandering in garden labyrinths
the chances are we won’t find the goddess or her nymphs
or there chalices in the angles or angel absinthe
that we drink or think outside our boxes
so neat we feel no feeling in our defeat
yet we drink it all down
like sad pathetic clowns
in the pubs wearing our overalls and scrubbing away.

Polishing our lamps just to find genies or djinn
in our lives that our extraordinary and full of sin
yet we all fall beneath the skin
the earth full of mud and shit
the page half written is full of it
yet it feeds us and bears fruit
forms the roots of all we cultivate
for man is no man unless he has a little hate
and enough love to permeate
his sad heart
beating in tune to the bleeding womb
he wants to enter
another grand venture
trying to give his child
the wisdom of being wild
and free while they try to chain his children
with the care they placed on his shoulders
I love you Atlas don’t get tired
Or older the love that beats in your soul
don’t let the fire get colder…

Christmas is cancelled

Tear down the tinsel

put the Christmas tree in the skip

rip down the rope lights

make the Christmas fairy take flight

Santa is in debt

his company in administration

so Christmas is cancelled

the kids will drive us to frustration

but this economy is to blame

so stop making your Christmas pud

let the turkeys run free

stop buying presents from Tesco express

and get the kids a cardboard box instead

let their imagination run wild

Christmas will always exist in the heart of a child.

Clean up before you leave

Rubbish mountains of plastic
dirty knickers with left over elastic.
Trainers and land fill kickers
bottle tops and yogurt lids
and pots of paint
our landfill legacy.

capital gains the pains of consuming
is the packaging goes to waste
we need to change our ways with haste
pick up the pace
clean up before we leave
our children with our legacy
our throw away culture
Picking through the leftovers like vultures
sucked into our planets polluted pain
We cannot thrive while the grass is stained
Gaia cannot take the strain
We cannot get away without our share of the blame.

A mother to her child

They took your innocence
and they left you with a hole
they made a pretence
and then took your soul
you were made to bear children
they made it your occupation
they made you want to be beautiful
attractive to the eye
they made you need a man who could protect you
but he controls you and makes you cry
this is not a verse which lies
make sure you keep your wisdom
make sure your beauty is kept in your souls secret garden
if there ever is frost in your heart make sure it doesn’t harden
make sure you pass on life’s truth to your children
it isn’t fair but your children control the future within their lives
A piece of you is in them woman don’t let it hide.

Borrowed earth

In the dark discarded night
When you wish you still had all your fight
You rest on a tear stained pillow
Outside your house the weeping willow
Kisses the river bed
Shedding it leaves
To those who still believe
In the magic of Mother Nature
We are caught in the rapture
Of our own dreams
Which filled our lives with polluted streams
We are jet black and hollow without nature
We are filled with jet black sorrow for our children’s children
Who cry for the earth which was borrowed and lent
and never meant to be spoiled
By our digital dreams.