FA Cup Poem

This is a poem for the most overlooked yet vital contributor to the game of all time. The game's named after him but he hardly ever gets any credit. The players hog the limelight, so to right that wrong, putting him centre stage (or centre circle) is a poem for the football.

Have a great day whoever you're supporting!
Mark x


The Ball
 
The match can’t start without me
And though I’m not a star,
Millions will watch my every move
Live, at home and in bars.
 
I’ll play the full match, not a second’s rest
From kick-off to added time.
I can be knocked long, short, even square
Or made to spin on a dime.
 
I can be struck, I can be headed,
I can be trapped or be still.
The first touch always tells me
If a player is average or skilled.
 
I can be bent, I can fly true
I can break hearts in a beat.
I can be the difference between
Glory and ignoble defeat.
 
I have been leather, I have been laced
I’ve been treasured when signed.
I’ve caused many an argument
About whether I’ve crossed a line.
 
I’m every shot, I’m every goal
I’m the cause of both joy and tears.
I will be the one who decides
Just where the Cup lives this year.

After a little rest...

..and the splurge of writing (splurge should be the official collective noun of writing. For writers I would suggest "blurb") in April for National Poetry Writing Month, I'm back.

The normal routine of schools visits, libraries etc has resumed. I had a lovely time talking about myself and my work and it was a pleasure to meet other writers.

I'm leading a poetry walk this weekend, and next week sees me in full ceremonial duty as the Mayoral year ends for Cllr Morris and starts for Cllr Brian White.

So here is a little poem about our capricious British weather.

The weather is back to miserable
Rain and wind make an awful blend
I hope you enjoyed the summer
(Those 2 warm days we had last weekend)!

Keep writin' and recitin'

Mark x

New poem: Vanessa

The finishing line! 30 days, 30 poems! Thank to those who have followed the blog and made kind comments.

A little challenge with poem. Is it a true story or merely made up?

Keep writin' and recitin'

Mark x


Vanessa
 
She is the girl
my mother warned me about.
Her kisses whisper songs stolen
from other lovers’ lips.
 
She walks with a sway
of relaxed assurance and
dangerous grace,
an assassin in dancer’s shoes.
 
She never left town
or settled down
and calls the hotel bar
her second home.
 
She didn’t recognise me,
the years casting camouflage
and the South has softened
once sharp vowels.
 
I’m amused she stops at my table,
the boy she never knew existed
back in the day. Later I will ask myself:
compliment or a lowering of standards?

Poem: Auto Pilot

So nearly there for NaPoWriMo!  Day 29/30 and it's nearly over.

Today's poem has a sombre background. I'm not one for long backstories to poems feeling they should speak for themselves. However, a little context here may be helpful.

I was driving back from closing the Cheltenham Poetry Festival late last night and keen to get home, I put my foot down. This reminded me of the many late night  journeys a couple of years ago when Dad was ill. I made the journey from Scarborough to home in Milton Keynes (about 200 miles) many times during the weeks before he slipped away. Travelling late at night meant clear roads and it's strange but I remember one journey when I had a moment of clarity; that one day that drive would be the subject of a poem. I'm ready now, so here it is.

Best, Mark x

Auto Pilot.

 
I am driving.
I am driving fast,
in the dark.
I am driving fast in the dark.
Cat’s eyes like dropped diamonds,
sparks from the stars
speeding
quick, quick, quick.
 
Driving like they do in films
scorching a line on a map.
Driving to home, from home
in that strange way we do,
caught between the two
Who am I?
Where is home?
Don’t think just drive.
 
I am a bullet from a gun
I am tracer fire
in war-torn skies
I am driving from death
from grief,
from a future without him.
Don’t think, just drive.
Drive, drive, drive.
 
I am arrow
straight, narrow.
I am speed on speed
driving on steroids
fully leaded
double espresso
I am a bullet from a gun
I am bullet
 
Before the caffeine wears off
before thoughts kick in.
Road bends, the earth curves
light bends
I am getaway car
with no escape
so drive, drive, drive.
Bullet from a gun.

Bullet,
bullet,
bullet.

A singer wakes and writes

I sing with a small choir and we performed a concert last night. We had a great time and helped raise money for a local good cause. They say write about what you know, so this what I know this morning.

Mark x

Singer wakes.
 
The morning after
the concert before.
The primary thought,
the throat is SORE!
Like swallowed sandpaper
then gargling chilli sauce.
 
Next, that satisfied afterglow
only performers know
of a show well sung
and the memory of applause
hung in the air, as if
invisible cherry blossom.
 
Then, the slow, slow splashdown,
a sense of deflation
as elation dissipates and
the cold air chisels at your resolve.
You’ve slept in, the heating is off
so you do the mental coin flip.
 
Bed wins, so you snuggle in
making yourself hedgehog,
gripping the duvet to keep reality out.
Residual heat keeps you warm as do dreams,
ripe with the promise of the next audience
and their cherry blossom.

 

Two triplet poems. Day 27 NaPoWriMo

These two poems are triplets. Poems of three stanzas of three lines of three words. I write a coople because just one felt like cheating. They explore a single thought or moment, very much like a haiku.

I hope you like them and give the form a go yourself

Mark x

 
Cocoon
 
Let my arms
be cotton wool;
safety and comfort,
 
protection and security.
Your own cocoon
for hibernation until
 
you wake, ready
to stand tall
in the world.
 

The first time
 
That first look,
when eyes locked
and something connected
 
is the look
you always wear
in my dreams.
 
Now we share
each morning, making

our dreams true.

Day 26 The things we do for love

A little poem inspired by a story I heard of someone who wanted to surprise his girlfriend with a quirky expression of love.

Have a great weekend everyone

Mark x

The things we do for love
 
You’d call the police
thinking him burglar or madman,
at the neighbour’s door with
a suspicious-looking canister.
In these hyper-vigilant days
“terrorist” might even ghost into your mind.
Yet this is love and genius
in equal measures.
 
The gas is helium and
that man,  love-struck extremist
that he is, is saying it with balloons
making a rainbow for her in the hall
one floating, fragile egg at a time
posted and inflated through the letterbox.
This is dedication, sideways thought and whimsy
in delicious and glorious technicolour.
 
He’s taking risks, turning “I love you”
from plagiarism back to original thought.
This is fever and lunacy, thankfulness and joyous abandon
tinged with barely acceptable levels of fear,
just like all love. He waits for her reaction;
hopefully, laughter and wonder and not
a future as short-lived
as those of the balloons.