I Write To Still My Inside Songs

 

I write to still my inside songs.

But words escape, they flutter fecklessly away.

I grit my teeth and bite my tongue.

Verbal tics have possessed me lifelong.
The disguises are displaying exponential decay.
I write to still my inside songs,

to shackle them with cursive ink where they belong;
expression of ignorant impression of air from within clay.
I grit my teeth and bite my tongue.

The context is lost and meter and meaning are both wrong
But phrases form perfume and colour my spiritual bouquet.
I write to still my inside songs.

And sometimes they're dripping with venom and vengeance from forked prong
But I never claimed to be Virtue in any morality play.
I grit my teeth and bite my tongue.

It's the battle to wrestle harpy squawk into birdsong
Sit and scribe, instead of say.
I write to still my inside songs.
I grit my teeth and bite my tongue. 

Davey Jones

 

This body of water
Swallows bodies of our daughters,
 bones of our sons.
Unforgiving, dark, forbidding, 
Rolling roar at sinking sun.
Beneath, the beasts,
Insatiable, sleek,
Electrical activity
That signals what they seek.
Saline gargle, Panicked splashing,
Telltale sound of surface slapping
Sensing from distant continents
the scent of stress incontinence.
Heavy, tired, socks that slide
half way off feet
Already freezing,
Tiny
speck
of life
in ocean vastness
Muster all the power that you can harness,
Burning core, your microcosm
Water scorched and adrenaline sodden,
Rages in futility
Against elemental inevitability.

Release air, relinquish earth,
Extinguish fire and become water.

Hypoxia hallucinations,
Visions, sounds and strange sensations
Faces, flashes of conversations
In unfamiliar situations.

And pain.

And then peace.

Consciousness incorporeal,
Subaquatic, state surreal.
Watch from without
As you wash away
And lose the ability to feel.

No more pain
No more rage
No more age
No more aching
No more taking breaths before you speak.
No more breaths.
Only freedom.
Go with the waves.
Let them take you away.

This body of water
Swallows bodies of our daughters
And bones of our sons.

#solwayharvester #drowning #lostatsea #nautical #daveyjoneslocker #poem #poetry #amwriting 

The Monster Under The Bed

 

My mother always shushed me when I went to her and said
"I think there's a monster hiding underneath my bed"
She said to me "you silly bean,
All that's there is mess.
Did you think I hadn't noticed?
It's time that you confessed
To your scurryfunge scullduggery
Honesty is best"
Well, frankly I was not in the mood
For lectures on my housework
Or lack of it.
I pursued it once again,
"It's there, I know,  I heard it move
I thought I saw some eyes,
When I tried to trap it with my books
And muddy docs, size 5.
I heard snoring earlier, I swear it! No, I did!
How can you be so sure there's no monster under my bed?"
"Because monsters, my love, live
 in story books
And in the hearts of man.
I explain that when you're older.
You'll learn to understand. 
They aren't interested in your ankles,
Or giving wriggling toes bites.
They are not photophobic
Now turn off your light."
I held on to her dressing gown as she tried to leave
and once again persisted. I began to plead,
"But what if it gets me, what will I do?
Can I shout you if it happens?
Will you come through?"
Exasperated  now, she sighed;
"Look, there isn't a monster,
That noise is your belly, or maybe it's sounds from the radio, or telly.
I'm tired, it's late, go to sleep,
Don't complain..
I don't want to have to come through again."
"Ok then, mummy, if you are sure"
Placated, I was; reclined and demure.
"Love you mummy, sleep well, good night"
"Schlaft gut" was her automatic, heartfelt reply.
The light was extinguished, the footsteps retreated
I lay in my duvet  cocoon anticipating
Silence.
After 5 minutes of adjusting eyes
The shadows were forming into threatening guise.
And then I heard it, the little scrabble thump
Of the creature residing beneath my bunk.
I rolled to the wall and pulled up my feet
My fear crystallising into gritted teeth.
I turned again, foetal, now blankets dishevelled
And gingerly stretched out my fingers the level
of the corner of the bed,
And gave them a wave
And a savage white claw shot up out of the grave.
I yelped and pulled back,
Heard a disgruntled snort.
And my anxiety giggle was horrifying caught
In my throat, trying desperately to stay quiet.
I don't want to be part of the monster's diet.
Hand wounds aren't easy to explain
And bite Mark's are obvious quadrants of pain
And if there is evidence that the monster is real,
then mummy might actually get down and kneel
And find you! And we can't really have that,
Can we, my darling, secret, feral cat?