Poem; Fine Wine

I need time for fine wine

Actually, it’s pretty cheap

Long as is doesn’t taste like vinegar, I’m good

And I refuse guilt

On a Friday, having survived

Because that’s what life is

A bloody fight and you know it

Like I know it

And we laugh about it and mostly

We swear fucking loads about it

And that makes us laugh more

Reveals the tension, the underlying strung out, pain and regret and

Anger

Licking lips, shaking heads, shaking it all away, we say

All you can do is laugh

All you can do is fuck it

Because life is short!

Fine wine, at the right time

Is never, ever enough

It lifts you up, lifts you out

The glass in hand, the bubbles glistening

The tall thin stem

The fragility of glass, like human pain

Human potential and blood

Your mouth rejects then consumes it

Your body likes it, your mind craves it

Music gets louder, means more

Touches you, nodding

You are gloriously amplified

Even, alone, typing, thinking, feeling, smiling

Taking lost selfies

You are smiling, with your fine wine

Your reward, your reward for the fight

And what does it mean

Except, anything can happen, anything will

Probably, you will roll into bed and sleep with

A smile on your face

But you don’t know that for sure when you start the fine wine

You feel the possibilities then

Of words unspoken, of laughter, light, danger

It’s all a ball of reckless desire and needing to be seen

It propels and laughs slyly

Trips many a fine human up

Ties them in knots

But not you

You know, fine wine, cheap wine

But only on a Friday

It is a caged beast, after all

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Poems; My Golden Son & These Streets

My Golden Son

The boy and I

Walked down the lane

with two old dogs

the lane warmed

by February sun

the sky blue

as we wandered on

in silence

every time I wanted to speak

there was nothing to say

no words

that had not been said before

I felt numb

the boy, sensing this

stayed silent, stayed gold

hope is in the snowdrops

darkness is in me

for all I see is gone

already a land of ghosts

the lane covered in litter

budweiser cans like a trail

I’d like to see that man

with a crow pecking his dead eye

I’d like to watch him die

instead of this gold land

instead of my golden son

These Streets

These streets hold dirt and grime

pigeons strut across the road

seagulls pull at black bin bags

in the back alley

litter and people discarded

rolled up in newspapers

junkies crouching on the corner

we drive on through that

see a glimpse of beauty in

red poppies on the roundabout

wild flowers on the bridge

did someone plant them?

or did they grow themselves?

Then, up up up

up and over

small cars stuttering into clouds

they rise above us

they fill the skies

the horizon is torched

and it hurts to believe in anything

to hope

is a pain in your chest

easier then to see death

in everything, to see the ending

a slow defeat, slow clapping

we hold up our hands powerless

too late to wake up now

we sleep forever

Embracing All Forms of Writing

There was once a time I considered myself a novel writer and a novel writer only. It was what I wanted to do and it was my comfort zone. I will probably always be happiest when lost inside the numerous drafts it takes to construct a novel. I’m confident with this form of writing, and a few years ago I would never have considered any other.

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Of course, that attitude had to change when I started publishing. I soon noticed that all authors had a blog or website and I shyly embraced this as a way of sharing my writing and gaining followers. It took me a while to get into the spirit of it, but it’s fair to say, once I found my feet, I began to relish writing my blog posts, and most of the time I’ve been fairly good at writing on a weekly basis.

As my attitude to blog writing changed, so did my attitude towards other types of writing. Back when I considered myself just a novel writer, I would never have considered trying my hand at writing articles. But somewhere along the line, I gained the confidence and started submitting articles about writing to Author’s Publish. This style of writing did not come naturally for me and I spent a lot of time reading and analysing their previous articles in order to work out what was wanted. When I had the first few accepted, I was over the moon. It was a real confidence boost.

Short stories were another form I once dismissed. I write such long books, that writing something short just seemed impossible. However, when someone mentioned writing short stories to compliment your books, I did get excited. This eventually led to Bird People and Other Stories, and now that I’m more practiced, short stories are a regular thing for me and I hope to have another collection out this year.

Screenwriting was another form of writing I never would have tried a few years back, despite how much I’ve always longed any of my books to be made into films or TV programmes. In fact, I often write as if imagining a real scene and pen my dialogue this way. Last year, when I had the new material for The Boy With The Thorn In His Side filling my head, I was reluctant to do anything about it but decided writing the material in screenplay form would be quick and fun and would help get it out of my head. It became ridiculously addictive! I read a few books about screenwriting and downloaded Scrivener, and off I went. Writing the book as a screenplay first was so much fun, and as I carried the notebook around with me everywhere, I got it done really quickly. Just recently I completed a free Introduction To Screenwriting course with Futurelearn, and I absolutely loved it!

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And just lately, I’ve been playing around with another form of writing I once turned away from. Poetry. When I was a young teenager, I did go through a poetry and song-writing phase. But I was put off by the poetry we had to study at school. It was so wonderful and complex, it just made me feel I could never compete, so why bother?

Poetry was not my thing, or so I told myself. But something weird happened very recently. I started getting ideas, or thoughts, quite randomly, which were really all just things I wanted to say. They were too short, random and weird for blog posts, articles or short stories though, so I started writing them in note style, like poems. I also starting re-reading a Bukowski poetry book I have, one of the only poetry books I’ve really enjoyed, and his style encourages you to have a go. I don’t think he followed any rules or was ever taught how to structure a poem, he just did it. He just wrote what he thought and felt. There is something really raw and beautiful about that and I think people should be encouraged to do it.

Once I started writing, more started to flow. I’ve nearly filled a notebook now and I’ve even decided to put some of them in my next short story collection and make a short story and poetry collection instead. I don’t try to force them or rush them, and they all seem to come from an emotional place, rather than a descriptive or rational place. Which is weird, and interesting.

I thought I would be really brave and share two of them with you today. These are two of the really early ones that came to me when this poetry thing started. These are first drafts and I’ve not messed with them or edited them since I wrote them, so please bear this in mind! I’m looking out for a local poetry workshop to go to, as I’d like to learn more and get my poems as well crafted as I can.

As always feel free to comment and share! How do you gain the courage to try new things? Do you have a comfort zone you wish to edge out of?

 

Murder

The crows were pissed off today

Fury in their hacking call

Feet pounding, heart racing

Breath hissing

Because I am not as young 

As I used to be

The crows took flight

Reluctant, squawking rage

Lifting and falling

Silhouettes in the black bones

of trees

The crows were pissed off today

Do they plot murder?

They say they hold funerals for their fallen

If this is true

What might be in store for us?

The crows were pissed off today

As I ran on

But I am not the one

Who shoots them with a gun

So that they live their lives

With one eye trained down

No wonder they screech and cry and hack

I’m pissing them off just being here

On the way back

A rasping sound

Like they are dying

Maybe they know

That everything is

Things You Don’t Want To Do

What’s that tangled mess in your belly?

For no reason

‘Cause nothing is wrong

Yet, it’s there like a disease

Writhing and tightening

Til you can’t breathe

With the weight of it all 

Following you around

Maybe it’s just the fear

Of the unknown

Of death in a metal mess

Of breathing your last

Ragged breath

Or maybe it’s just

All the things you don’t want to do