Category: Creative Writing

Walking against the rain,
Hand gripped around yours.
Rushing across the street,
Dodging traffic and meandering pedestrians,
We reach the bridge.

Below the dull waters slowly flow,
As ducks bob for algae.
The river runs for miles,
Before it reaches us.
It’s rippled and trickled,
And gushed to us;
And will continue for miles more.

A speeding cyclist makes you jump,
And I laugh, but onward we walk.
Past the pub already filling,
With working class men who’ll curse our youth.

You tickle the exterior of my heart,

Your gleam dancing through me.

Eyes closed and sun beaming down,

Making my sight red.

My tender skin warms from you.

 

You, distant light,

That feels so close right now,

How I want to be enveloped by you.

You, with your power and strength,

With the warmth to heat the eyelids of billions,

From way up there.

How I want to be part of you,

Part of your beauty,

Part of your mystery;

Part of your solitude.

So I too can lonelily look upon Earth.

“Ar’ ey” they’d say,
“There’s a woolyback in town”,
Trespassing on their turf.
I’d scuttle past them in a hurry,
Because I had heard the stories.

They’d get “bevvied” and smoke “ciggies”,
Tossing beer bottles into the dock.
They’d brawl in the Cavern Club,
And “rob ya” just because.
But among the abandoned factories,
That dozed by the riverside;
There was a park, so still,
And sheltered from the northern wind.
That I would almost forget those stories.

Until I was on the train,
Going home,
And saw the Bulger flowers.

Beneath the bowers of our tree,
I curl against the twisted roots.
Head wrapped in coarse sack I cower,
As the beasts sing a midnight hymn.
The soil’s embedded in my wrinkles,
And clogs up my throat.

Arms bound together,
And worms tickling my sunken skin;
And I feel them trample on the ground above,
Like a whip lashing against bare flesh.

They strung me up like a wind chime,
And I blew freely in the breeze.
Until they cut me down and I crumpled.
The blossom and the leaves have covered my frail form,
And I am hidden from their history,
In my darkened tomb;
Below the tree with our names engraved,
That fades more each day.

Scattered amongst the mossy turf,
and circled around the tree trunks;
they’d blow gently to and fro.

You told me fairies and sprites sheltered
under their flared heads,
when the rain or snow fell.

I’d pick them by the slopes of the beck,
and place them on your dresser.

Sometimes you’d pluck the flowers off their stems,
and weave them into my braids.

Dancing like Titania I ruled over the forest,
shouting commands at the blackbirds and thrushes.
But they always flew away.

Once I thought I saw a figure,
hiding underneath a rotten toadstool,
but now I doubt I ever did.

Down by the harbour I watched the gulls,
And skimmed the ocean with broken shells.
Down by the harbour I closed my eyes,
And listened to the tales of crying waves.

Down by the harbour I dreamed up sirens,
That would lure the weary boatswains.
Down by the harbour I envisioned a storm,
With lightning bolts that raised alarm.
Down by the harbour is where I was born,
And to the harbour I shall soon return.

In Response to Conrad Aiken’s Silent Snow, Secret Snow

The winter is quiet,
Muffled by the snow and frostbite.
Feet crush the flakes into hard slippery ice.
The peace when the road is closed,
Cannot be likened to anything else.
You stay wrapped up in jumpers and blankets,
Sipping hot cocoa and mulled wine.
The silence grows stronger.

The clock that beat out as loud as a human heart,
Is now a whisper;
And the creaks that were cackling screams,
Are now forced shut.
Trapped, you sit and watch the flakes,
Falling, dancing downwards.
They spiral and spin drawing you close to them.
With no television or radio,
The house is quite still.
Even your hums seem silenced,
As if a pillow is being held against your face.

Enveloped by murky waters,

Breathing in the froth that bubbles to the surface.

Sediment and sea monkeys float into your throat.

-Sigh-

The liquid claws into your lungs.

-Splutter-

You drift…

You’re a buoy or a lily pad resting.

The seaweed clings onto your braids,

As fish nibble your cheeks,

And waves pull you towards the sun.

Sipping lemonade in the sidelines,

And gazing at the ground.

Those weak and sunken eyes,

With hair matted and lips cracked.

You are no Juliet, no Elizabeth, no Jane;

Just homesick for the parents you ran from.

Practising lines in bathroom stalls and hoping to get by,

You pawn the ring a boy long ago gave you,

In hopes that they’ll notice you tomorrow.

My son and daughter bicker in the midday heat,

With broken English I tell them to speak Spanish;

The language of my mother,

That was so tenderly spoken to me.

They tell me I need adopt the American lifestyle,

And all the verbs, nouns and adjectives that follow;

They see no need for my sentimentality.

But my native tongue drips with history,

While my Florida son and daughter utter words I do not know.