Coffee in the Cafe

I sat in the cafe and waited.
Sipping at coffee,
And watching the strangers go by.

I sat in the cafe and waited.
One eye on the clock,
And watching the strangers go by.

I sat in the cafe and waited,
My heart beating faster,
Knowing the hour was past,
Staring with fear,
At the hands on the clock,
As they beat our lost chances away.

But you caught the last chance to the cafe,
You wrested my sight from the clock,
You walked through that door,
And time fell away.
So we sat sipping coffee in the cafe,
And watching the strangers go by.

Released under a creative commons licence (some rights reserved) - see my website: Daydreams

ode on my own

ode on my own

i stepped upon the scarlet stair
wondering what i might find there
but all was dark and i in fear
enjambed my way through the dark
and here, remains what's left of my tortured soul
a pause, and i continued, pressing forth
my words are spread and lost on wanton air
"release me, forgive me" the voice began
it spoke in words langourous and long
ding dong ding dong
the bell did ring and with a start
i jumped to my feet and broke my heart
and there he was upon the stair
my scarlet blood spilt unaware
by uncruel hands so cruelly bent
my life's force langurously spent
and so my friend we part and must
to our master our verses entrust.
for he is wise and we so weak
and knows the truth from what is fake
oh beware all you who jump your heart to seek
a lover's caress, a friend's kind word, a pet's disease.

If people are flames and if you are the one
then these days in the dark I can handle
For I'd rather be three hundred miles from the sun
than live every day with a candle

Happily blocked

Five hours
Seven lines
Six days overdue

run out of emptiness
excuses worn out
health is mine
darkness is just time
to dream of light

if you love then it's true
i love him i don't care
i'll tell him if he asks
i'll smile if he does
i hate this i don't mind

if everything is shit
you're not trying hard enough

a darker side

this.
is.
my confession.

i hope you never know.

i read your livejournal.

and hers.


and i am
so
utterly
satisfied.
that
the two of you
are so
utterly
miserable.
together.



i confess my petty vindictiveness.
(and hope karma doesn't notice.)

crept tempting into days and days

water tied, string arc-aching plain,
the episodes of singing rain,
push down and through the bouncing wall,
and return at once through open pane.

crept, tempting, into days and days,
in rooms constructed myriad ways,
light proceeding, the air agreed,
we did not see, or we did not need.

state this statement in the city,
past yellow indigenous concept, pity
the round of talks did not admire,
blue golden vapour, and tremble, still.

this joke is on the definate core,
this hope is not the reflection more,
will try look past, this joseph's heaven,
please, just let me count past seven.

Houses of Glass (unseasonal)

Houses of glass by the railway line;
The sun that slides off the long lines
as you cross in the heat
you find amidst the grass
that gathers round your ankles
in the summer.
Plastic wrappers shining white
with the sun, see-through, or colours faded
with the train's approach, a sound
like air, a hot sea, rubble falling
in a distant city, come to buffet the breeze
with a sudden shock.
And when it passes and the blue haze
blows again, you can hear for the first time
in insects singing and buzzing around
the dry bricks, wooden fences and laundry.
And see above, in the house of glass
the woman come to look out
across the wasteland
to the towers of the city.

---

I really like this - Thanks for posting it...
From, Someone

on my poem being removed from the wall

was it the structure, or the words that were in it,
that made the writer's guild think 'let's bin it'?

(has anyone else been excised from the wall?)

- - -

as far as i (mike - cwg webmaster/co-president) know, the CWG didnt remove your post. most likely it was someone else using the cwgwall login. apologies.

to whoever did - please don't remove other people's posts. it really runs against the spirit of what the wall is here for. regardless of whether you think it should be here, freedom of expression has determined that it is. edit, add to or respond to writing. but dont just delete it. otherwise whats the point in having this here? thanks.

as i grow older

and now i only have questions. where did all my answers go?

The first per/sub-version of the wall

Come see Pier Paolo Pasolini's grotesque and beautiful masterpiece, "Orgy" (written entirely in free verse) at the Corpus Playroom from the 1st 'til the 5th of November at 9.30pm.

Warning. This show is recommended for over-18s only.

prose!

'It's cold.'
'But you're wearing your coat. And mine. And a scarf.'
'Not a good scarf.' She looked at him sideways, bluely. 'I could knit a better scarf than this.'
'I'm sure you could,' he replied, bewildered out of words, and turned his head to the right where a fall of snow had transformed the hills into gigantic slopes of sparkling sugar.
'Started knitting one once,' she continued, her voice a little choked by the cold, 'a green one, then I ran out of green so it turned orange, then I kept dropping stitches...so in the end it was less of a scarf and more of a...green, orange triangle. Of wool.'
'Hmm,' he said, and wondered if she would mind much if he slipped his hand into hers, and then realised that no, she was wearing large aubergine-coloured gloves, and the gesture was robbed of its romanticism. Put your woolly hand in mine. His fingers, at least, were cold. They flexed. Crunch went the snow.

"....

it was only a delicate tinkle,
like the sound of fine crystal shattering on the tiles.

then followed the silence, that dreadful, noisesome silence, that comes after such a thing.



but then, when you think it's all swept up,
and you've accepted your loss,
one small, sharp sliver slides-
effortlessly,
into you.

and you wonder where that silence is hiding.

boy

when he talks of play-dough and children with a changed voice
follow his breathing like drums. is he real?

An Epic Poem (continued)

The water of Cambridge was effortless still,
As the titanic marching drifted down from the hill...

The ug-boot stomp, the skirts rara,
and the harridan squawk under glistering stars...

blistering scars that no one minds
keep the lights low and hot so no one has to know

Then pout your fescennine fleshy lips
and kiss the lager off your burberry check

sweep the dusty undercover from the top of the stairs
tea should be ready by now

i'll have a chicken pot noodle, yes, that's all,
and laugh at you in your formal hall

and kindly remove your suitcase from the corridor
it's blocking the passage to darker places

where the light bulb burned itself out
but guess what's in my pocket?
this lighter is life fuck the dark

Two Quasi-Limericks and a Load of Good Ones About Authors of the English Canon (by a better writer of limericks)

I
Shane's smile, oh venomous chiaroscuro!
Artless Caravaggio, carving shadows in my marrow,
as if, as if...
Your gaze was a simple maze,
of raindrops on a window.

II
Heavy with Shane I'm a swollen turnip.
I keep a dignified white (though in passion's grip).
But now he slaps my thighs and unseats my surmise,
The pen does a dance and out he skips.

:0

chickens and eggs

i may be master of these words
but planes did not inspire the birds

Duty

duty is not a weight on my shoulders.
it is the pole under my chin.

Haiku on the Importance of Words

why do so many
poets write about writing?
it's a waste of words.

what is the point if
all you talk about is what
it is like to talk?

An Ode to Jimmy White

You have taught me that
It is not the taking part that counts.
It's the referee.