Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Jam Sandwich

He grew like a weed,
sprouting and towering above me,
but in my eyes,
he was still five years old,
jam under his fingernails,
reaching up with a smile and sticky hands.

When he was three, he struggled to speak,
but by thirteen, I couldn’t shut him up,
always gabbing,
babbling about the football as dinner falls from his excited mouth,
a stern stare from his father would restore the memory of his manners.

I remember him that way,
or with sticky fingers and a sweet little smile,
even as the handsome man who used to be a boy,
blushing as I rub the remains of his breakfast from his chin,
shooing me from his side as the other uniformed sons step into line with him.

The house was haunted by the eternal emptiness.
I would stare into the cupboard,
my stare, stuck on the strawberry jam,
the last one in town,
a rare, secret treat that I would not allow to be eaten,
until my boy was back home.

It still stares back at me,
with that same, sticky, sweet smile as the small boy who became a man,
A man who couldn’t stay.

Every evening,
I stay up late,
after a long day of listening to the neighbourhood kids,
wondering if their mothers know how lucky they are to never have a moment’s peace.
Everything is quiet as I switch on the television,
blinking back the burst of light it lets into the room,
and the football highlights start.

I’ve made him a jam sandwich.
It’s on the kitchen table,
with all the other ones.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

You Were Just There

Last night,
I played with fire,
this morning,
I woke up, drowning.
It’s just the way of the world, my love,
one day you’re an empress, the next you are empty,
but last night, you said you loved me,
and I ruled the world as a ghost for a moment,
crown, trembling atop my tresses as you undressed me with nervous, nimble fingers.
I could say “no” but what good would it do?
We both know the way that I want it,
and we both know that you don’t care,
and, perhaps it’s my problem, for playing along as you preyed on my loneliness and lassitude.
I just wanted to be held until the world let me go,
and you were just there.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I’m not in any danger

If I was any other thing,
I would be the planks of a pier by the ocean I dreamed of for the last decade,
so I could hear her sing to me as the stars stare down.

It never seems to end.
I fix my eyes on a final point
that seems to get further away every time I blink.
Don’t cry.
It’s almost over,
and we had so much fun,
didn’t we?

I’m happy,
if you want me to be.
I’ll wear a nice dress and pack away my paranoia for the weekend.
I am so random and ridiculous.
Worn out witch drowning in her dizzying disaster,
dwindling as the dawn breaks,
mullato mistress of the multiverse of misery.

My loneliness could kill me, and I’d laugh,
grateful as the lights above shimmer and shake with grief.
I’m not in any danger.
This happens all the time.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Paddington Hears The News

Paddington reads the morning papers with a melancholy smile,
watching Mr Brown make tea in silence.
Gun fire greets the morning sky as it weeps across the capital,
and the bear pulls a marmalade sandwich from his hat,
biting in to the sweet nectar, and all the memories it holds.
He drinks his tea,
remembering his manners and making use of a cup rather than the pot.
Mrs Bird gently pats his head as she passes with a weary sigh,
and he prepares another sandwich, before softly padding through the house and out of the door.

There is a stillness that cannot settle,
interrupted by sporadic sobs on the street.
Bells will be wailing soon,
rainbows have crossed the sky,
and the Daily Mail is desperate to tell the world about a cloud in The Queen’s image.
He joins silent commuters in a busy but quiet carriage,
his paws tightly gripping the handrail until he reaches Green Park,
disembarking and wandering towards the towering gates of the palace.
Slightly crushed by the crying crowd,
he makes his way to the front with a polite smile for everyone he meets,
and he places a marmalade sandwich on the ground, among the arrangements of lilies that lay on the pavement.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Head In The Clouds

Head in the clouds,
kept clear of the Earth’s echoes,
all the things that I cannot face fall away when I wander the halls of heaven.
I have picked out the poppies for my graveside,
gracefully gazing at my name and a list of accolades on the sandstone.
I’ve been living for my last days longer than I have been breathing.