A Poem for Autumn

A Poem for Autumn 

Always the most magic of seasons is she

That begins to wipe clean the earth again.

With air consciously breathed and falling leaves;

It is not death, merely renewal.

Preparation for a period of want.

A cleansing, a harvest, a bonfire blazing.

As a child I sharpened new pencils inhaling their scent,

As the year begun in September as autumn hit 

And it still buzzes like new for me,
In these orange months.

Summer may have rendered us dozy,

Satiated with leisure and loving;
A lackadaisical life.

But September chills our bones and heats our souls,

And we throw ourselves into it again. 
With purpose.

It's a new term after all and we can begin.

Living with the leaves, grasping for their colour,

Just as we shirked from bright brilliance in summer behind shades.

What do you really want?

We harvest and we store.

We frighten at Halloween, the extreme.

And we burn, burn, burn,

And light up our sky for Guy.

Autumn is a pleasure, a warning, a human quest for...

I like things moving is all.

And we keep ourselves busy.

Enthralled. Till fall has finally fallen,

And we are left to live as ice-cold gluttons for one month, 

Eating and drinking and fucking till new year.

After, we disappear from behind our eyes for a while,

Barren land, bodies stooped, curmudgeonly;

Until spring dances her pretty feet across our path.

Search Party

 

Search Party

I think you're lost little darling,
Your soul has wandered off.
The blank stares,
No trivial cares,
Quiet and then the rage
That sits within you sometimes -
Ignore the rhymes.
What I'm trying to say is that I'm here,
To listen to your woes, dispel your imaginary foes.
There is something in you that calls out to me,
I just want to soothe you until you see
How fucking unique -
A fascinating freak
You are.
Because what you have done and achieved,
You helped others breathe
And created a space where people felt worthy.
To me, you are magic
Your story isn't tragic.
Stop making it so.
The most complicated, mixed-up minds in life
The ones that create and help the most
Are often left sobbing when they're not playing host,
But you can choose a different way.
Cliches say,
Live day-to-day.
Choose joy instead of self-flagellation;
Pass by that station.
Put your shoes on and step out today,
(No need to make hay)
Don't absorb the world's troubles.
Think about glitter and bubbles,
Feather boas and plasticine,
Other things that make one scream
With joy at the nonsensical silliness of it all.
And if that doesn't work my friend,
You can depend
On the many that love you.
Who would sit and count sheep
Or listen to music on repeat
Or talk and talk and talk and talk
Until the planes begin to fly again.
I am one of those my darling, you know it too.
I would spend my lifetime helping you find your soul.
I would paint pictures of joyful things,
Write you stories, buy you beautiful gifts.
I would stay up all night Googling happy news for you to read
Give a speech on your qualities, whether you agreed -
Or not.
Your magic, your kindness, that limitless smile.
Your souls is not lost,
It has only gone away for a while.

Thoughts Too Much

Thoughts Too Much

Thoughts, thoughts all the time, inescapable...

Locked inside, but so loud.

Thinking not sleeping, sleeping while walking,

So loud.

People don’t see, don’t know, don’t ask.

Externally calm and poised.

The chic woman on the tube with the slightly red hands.

The house on the hill, the door never opened.

Boxes and boxes of stuff, endless phone calls.

Rituals that become your life,

So, so loud.

Nonsensical, but it doesn’t stop you, does it.

Disney films and sleeping pills and late night conversations,

Might placate them for a while.

Self-medicating stills them for a while, but is inadvisable,

They return louder and more detailed than before.

Fighting them every way they come, vehemently fighting them.

But this doesn’t help in the end.

In the end, you just have to let them go...

Don’t fight anymore and the volume turns down.

Until you learn to mute them.

#The100DayProject, #100DaysofWriting, Day 16

To Valentine's

Too-red roses squashed on the pavement,

Like they've been painted by Alice's cards. 

Sticky chocs, and socks, and the scent of

What someone has called perfume on the breeze.

Shops are shades of pink and red,

The heart and the flower rule the court.

Stars and crosses cast aside

Whilst eggs are patiently waiting.

Those entangled with another,

Feel pressure and pleasure in parts.

Whilst those who stand alone

Shrug or ignore, burn or laugh.

Men and women both

Revert to forgotten stereotypes.

Restaurants pawning regulated romance, packed.

Though the world seems to ring with rejecting the day.

Silly, so silly, so silly they say.

Love is not one day.

So American with vivid white teeth is St Valentine,

A result of Cupid's arranged marriage with Simon Cowell.

We hug ourselves a little tighter,

Those of us alone.

It's like New Year, I hate New Year.

Yet though true, it doesn't numb us to it.

Leave the cards and three-for-one singles cocktails

At a damp west-end bar

And whether a half of two or one whole one. 

Accept it as a day to remind us of all love.

For yourself, for others, for life. 

Just don't start with a paper cut-out heart.