Cake Day

Here is a new poem, still in its infancy as it is a first draft.

Would love to know what you guys think!

 

Cake Day

 

Grandma used to say

everyday above ground is

a cake day.

 

I never understood

the saying until now, sat

in the second pew

 

watching lilies tremble

by candlelight. She often

came up with wacky sayings.

 

I’d shrug them off, thinking

her daft in her old age, strange ways.

 

She always kept her helmet

on the kitchen table, next to

a china teapot. One of the few

 

oldies I knew who wore jeans,

her tattoo would peek out from under

the sleeve of her cardigan.

 

They served cake at the wake. Carrot,

her favourite. I tuck into the frosting

and spice, think of her, up there,

 

looking down on me stuffing

my face, smothering myself

in life. Having another cake day.

 

 

 

The English Chicago Review

I am extremely honoured to have my poem, School Run, appear in the first ever edition of The English Chicago Review alongside some amazing poets like Amy Audebert, Ian Parks, Antony Dunn and Jem Jem Henderson!

If you would like to pre-order a copy you can do so via this link: http://englishchicagoreview.blogspot.co.uk/p/current-issue.html

Many thanks to Ashley Fisher (editor) for his kind support.

You can also check out his other publication, Turbulence, via this link: http://www.turbulencepoetry.blogspot.co.uk/

 

 

 

Carrion Kisses

I should’ve seen the black

dirt under your fingernails,

or smelt the perfume lingering

at your neck.

 

But your elbow, touching mine as we sat watching Countdown, kept you hidden in my laugh, in the twinkle of a sigh.

 

You came home late once,

brought me roses. Every

kiss a kitten-scratch on my

cheek, piercing, reddening.

 

But your fingers, lacing mine as we walked through the museum, quoting Shakespeare and Keats, made me smile through a cry.

 

You’d bite blood oranges through

their flesh, peel back the rind

like the skin from my lips, sucking

rubies between your gap-tooth.

 

But your scent, clouding me as we lay on sticky sheets at 4am, got caught on my tongue. I forgot the black eye.

 

Published by Turbulence Magazine: Issue 10

http://www.turbulencepoetry.blogspot.co.uk/

Olympic Torch Poetry

It’s been and gone, but the warmth of the event still lingers round the streets of York.

Here is the poetry that was tweeted during the York Torch Run 2012.

http://yorkstories2012.com/2012/06/york-torch-tweets-the-build-up/

http://yorkstories2012.com/2012/06/york-olympic-torch-relay-twitter-poems-along-the-way/#more–

Enjoy!

Cot

I remember times when you would cough,

splutter back cups of milky cream.

 

The curdled cries after your fall

and cleaning rivulets from a cut

 

that gushed with pain. Red and slick

I could stomach, but it was the tired look

 

in your eyes, the mum we need to talk,

that made me stop and notice the lost tick

 

of the clock. Against your age I fought

to keep my baby in her cot.

 

Published by Pastiche Magazine

Highly commended in the York Writers Poetry Competition

6.10am

6.10am

 

sleep stares back

from the ceiling.

crusted lids cemented

like the day-old weetabix

in your unwashed bowl.

I watch the resurfacing of your breath,

the decay of your dreams

in the crinkle of your eyes,

amazed to find

you survived the night.

 

Published by Indigo Rising US: Issue 23

 

Garden Shed

In a splintered, cobwebbed cave

my brother and I

make pies from dirt and stone.

We snuck the tarnished spoon,

from an unguarded door,

frosted like forgotten breath

on a window pane.

We dip the dull head

into wet earth,

stirring carefully,

breaking up clumped clots

of brown and maroon,

serving up the warmth.

Turbulence Magazine

Issue 10 of Turbulence Magazine is out now, featuring yours truly.

Go ahead and buy a copy…it’s fanblinkintastic!

http://turbulencepoetry.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/turbulence-10.html

Un Petit Mort

 

I touch cold skin

in the crook of your neck,

kiss briney lips

that taste of me.

 

 

My moss covered hair

tangles in your toes

tickles you there

in the darkness, alone.

 

 

You thrash beneath me

for a little, for a breath.

Gulping down my love

for you, till the end of time.

 

Fairytale

 

Daisy-chains lace a path that once held

the shadow of a prince on noble steel, a knight

in shining pick-up truck to whisk

away a heart in need. Leave

behind youth and sighs for the ride

to a castle full of dancing and flight.

The girl looks back as the white petals

fall. To love, or not to love?

Decisions made in haste, as pages

of the book flip past.

Lost among thorny differences,

sleeping silences, the daisy sits

on the mantle, ticking away the last

goodbye of the prince that never arrived.