Simple // Five

The poetry of randomness now mine
to dictate terms, pronounce new Golden Age:
no comprehension of those higher arts,
dark multi-stanza tricorne memories.
Deep within ASD-soaked matter
true randomness of history, buoying.

Reassemble vast, disparate puzzle
brain’s picture on a box bright jumbled mess,
nope, smart explanation never mattered.
Progress, it appears, will now become clear
only when your old rules are cast aside,
marked groundwork, laid for progress, rebuilding.


Simple // Four


Everybody’s angles point obtuse: stop,
insufficient effort placed, polish black.
Countless waves, critical voices yelling
harsh pronouncement, without support offered.
I don’t like this, refusal to say why
easier to fake interest at distance;
subtweet poor arrogance, emotion free
so no-one ever hears or tries escape.

Then finally, in storms most brutal phase,
subtle eye of comprehension opens
surveying emerged truth: competition
dictates largest, angriest troll alive.
No race to finish first or best, just be
what soul decides most useful waste of space.
Your subtweets are a pointless exercise
ignore these haters: plough deeper furrows.


 

Simple // Three

These simple answers no longer suffice;
too many journals heaving with wisdom
capsize and sink, prose lost presumed rhyming.
Impossible to rescue truth, belief;
one has to kop it, meeting their maker
whose inbox heaves, stacked, unread messages;
tablet’s cracked and broken, promises lost.

Blame clouds, long-expired user agreements
bridges under which trolls are rammed, ten deep’s
worth of angry, bitter deconstructions.
Nobody wants new, old, bitter poets
let these robots take your jobs, constructing
brilliant, nebulous nonsense stanzas
already favourited, countless times.


 

Simple // Two

Direction must therefore be altered: point
yourself west, towards countless setting sons
commanding consumption for their futures.
Resist continued desire; imitate
nobody except your own past echoes,
apps, urls, deconstructed guidance.

Count these beats in digital times, making
snapshots with conjugal rhymes, resultant
overnight follower count nirvana.
The future’s already, out of date meme
newspaper’s print without understanding
proclaiming destruction before forethought.


 

Simple // One

Simple // One

The poetry of others is not mine:
read, assimilated and digested
it is that foreign country of times past.
Their verses shimmer, tantalising coins
inside stone fountains raining forth wisdom;
acid rain eroding, confidence gone.

I come late to this jamboree, grasping
baggage, pitted with footprints, refusals
stamped between eyeballs: too simplistic, no.
You cannot join our party: name’s not down
that attitude’s a joke, go rhyme elsewhere;
playing a young woman’s game here, sweetheart.


Simple Song

There are big poems as yet undiscovered within me. They are hidden behind bad memories, submerged in low, foul smelling lakes of recrimination and angst. These words are the marrow in bones that move a body in other directions, and by understanding their significance, the whole of my existence becomes smarter and stronger. I’m away right now, and whilst brain takes a much needed couple of weeks away from a full-time screen, there’s the words that have been left behind.

playchicken.gif

Starting next Monday, until the end of the month, you’ll get two verses of the New Poetry per day on Monday and Wednesday, with EX/WHI on Fridays. It’s a window into the part of my brain undergoing renovation. You can’t see much through this darkened, dirty glass but let the management assure you that these changes are worth the vastly inflated construction fees, and you’ll be able to see the sea from here. Oh, and you can have the chicken for absolutely nothing. Gratis. All yours, squire.

Strap in people, there’s turbulence coming.

Poetry Archive :: Release

I went dumb and went rhyming. Don’t @ me, people, I’m emotionally spent, plus by the time you read this I will have done two massive bike events in two weeks. You can spend the ten days or so reading the better examples of my poetry via Social media. For now, please allow this woman a chance to go sit and relax for ten days…


Release

Only seven more days remain
‘Til holiday’s starting, again:
Excitement is always the same
Kid within me bounces, no shame.

This year, I’ll be living the dream
Ambition from childhood our scene:
To Italy, move at full steam
Don’t anyone mention ice cream.

For seven days this is our home
Whole family, going to Rome:
Staring at basilica’s dome
Sightseeing, then time on our own.

We’re staying a way out of town
Hope our villa is not a let down:
Am not on vacation to frown
Don’t want to have sorrows to drown.

Adventure is what we will make
Occasional rules then to break
Relaxation, time now to take
I really hope there will be cake.