New-age Punk.

 

 

portrait-3036869__340640497809.jpg

Armed with their look

They’ve a gut full of fears,

Their anger disguised

Behind tattooed tears.

 

They hook youth to bring

New music to the masses,

To stir unrest amongst

those middle-classes.

 

Secretly it’s about

Statement and look,

under the guise of a

new-age punk book.

 

Courting social media

With Insta and Mix,

To highlight the movement

With moody selfies and glitz.

 

Power hungry fools

with political agendas

Infiltrate the movement

To fulfil their vendettas.

 

Soon they are castigated,

Pilloried as militant fools.

Credibility lost, they are

just punks without tools.

Another new direction for this have a go woman of words. Let me know if I grabbed the emotion and threw it out there. Maybe it is a step too far? Let me know I value your opinion.

Advertisements

Cheers.

Here Linda Hills stream of concious Saturday prompt. Press to join in or read

We heard the cheers through the trees,

The music carried on an evenings breeze.

Painted faces and flowered hair,

Dogs and children nap in wheeled chairs.

We raised our glasses nodded our heads.

Unspoken memories we shared in bed.

An earthy voice was the last we heard,

Interupted by the late night trill of a lowley bird.

A nightingale threw back its head

We listened lying in the motorhome bed.

The festival stopped with resounding cheers

But the nightingale stayed with us for many years.

Photograph taken by me at #RedRoosterFestival JUNE 2018 Held at Euston Hall Suffolk.

A VERY QUICK #SoCS

Have you been to a gig or festival recently? Do let me know in the commentsūüėá

Beneath The Deep

He finished his book, watched the moon glow red on the day. With closed eyes, he inhaled … as if in a dream. A flash, then he falls away.

Into the deep, his arms like tentacles flap as if he’s waving goodbye. There’s panic, an unheard scream, bubbles bursting towards the sky.

Down in the grime the muck and the slime beside the hull of an upturned boat, Protrude oars, like arms reaching out … as if to get ahold of his throat.

An eel comes to look at the boy with a book, who into the water was spilt.Who struggles and fights, his legs disturbing the silt.

Deep he plunges, the light disappears in a mist. Like angelic detritus he floats, intoxicated with heavenly bliss.

The dark clears, a nymph beckons with barely a flick of her wrist. A wisp of a thing lures him deep. Her face he tenderly kissed.

He’s now way below,
Where tides

ebb and flow.

And dreams

Reappear

With

The

Fish.

This re worked piece gets a second chance as I attempt to capture something new.

Did my foray into fantasy work? Answers will be most welcome *waves*

Finding Magic.

Once in a moon
you walk in a room,
With feelings
like you belong.

Once or twice in a life,
When the weather is nice,
And the sun heats up the sky
You will hear a unicorn sigh.

Just now and then
for a smidgen of time
You believe you are
The subject of a song.

If you lay, for a week and a day,
Watch the sun play in the trees.
You’ll see faeries take up a dance,
On the warmth of the incoming breeze.

By holding the thread at end of your bed,
You get to tug it once in your dreams.
The world turns blue especially for you,
And magic exists … So it seems.

pictures by pixabay

My First Exquisite Dress.

I love the life of your hat,

I once had a dress like that.
All grace and glamour,
The boy’s would clamour
To glimpse the off shoulder
French fancy.

And me, at sixteen,
I learned how to preen
I perfected a wiggle,
A look over my shoulder,
But under my brows.

The dress held my joi de vivre
My confidence my class.
It was in the lace,
While I hid the blush
Upon my face.

My parisienne dress
wasn’t me.
But in it, I could be,
Entertaining and sweet.
They would fall at my feet,
And I could shoo them away.

Back then, when age was nothing
But a moment in time.
Confidence plucked from air
As the flower in my hair.
It was all so fleeting,
like a clandestine meeting.

The whistlers

I catch a noise before I sleep
The whistlers skulk about
Spreading fear skin deep.
Chirruping secret calls,
Hiding behind garden walls.
Disturbing young girls dreamsI wake with terrifying screams.

I pull a quilt over my head,
Hide a torch beneath the bed.
Prepare to fight for my life
I take Mum’s vegetable knife.
It’s old and blunt, bent a bit
She stabs at spuds in the pot
To ascertain if they are hot.

Armed, I squeeze Emma tight,
Her yellow suit warm and bright
She comforts me as I hum
a lulluby learned from Mum.
Doll and me are doing fine
Until music starts keeping time.

Through the crack, behind the bed
I hear the tune, inside my head,
Sweet and soft hardly heard.
Matching me word for word.
Spuriously stuffing notes in a sack
My sleep is wrestled into the black.

Sheets tangle around my legs,
like on the line, around Mummy’s pegs.
I can’t escape, I scream at last,
Sodden sheets and whitened mask.
Tapping her foot beside my bed
Mummy glares, shakes her head.
washed and clean no longer soiled
Tea is made …
Once the
whistling kettle’s
boiled.

For those who want to listen to me speaking the poem click the link below…

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B7WJ-42kvYrWdGtNM3RBdERHcWpYNlZwcXVxMGctWmVzYXFJ/view?usp=drivesdk

Written for A Halloween poetry competition press here to see all the wonderful enteries here Thank you Auroura for the opportunity.

A little Halloween can go a long way… What were you scared of? Or maybe you still are? leave me a comment I’ll answer quick smart.

The End of Summer.

When illness stole the Summer.

I was distracted when it came in, what with moving house.

When Easter’s sun puddled chocolate; it seeped through the foil.

Life exhausted my bones, each sinew ached for rest, but on I’d toil.

Pleased to be in this lovely space where history would join with our taste, we’d make a home.

He’d gazed a face like this before. His eyes focused, periwinkle blue.

That doctor, one Summers day … he knew.

When sun and storms made gardens green, The well was clear and ducks shared our stream. I missed those days and slept it seems.

Through Summer, the missed paddles and golden dreams.

That summer will be remembered … or not.

As the one, I slept away.

The summer of

Misty minds

And forgotten

Days that was

The End Of Summer for me.

Now Autumn calls, I hope not to miss the golden leaves the morning mists.

A bike to peddle the flab away on crisp voluptuous days like today.

I hope you enjoyed my freeform write, leave a word, I hope you might.

Absent.

Wait for me when I’m gone,

Don’t forget I was here.

Come and read a while

There’s nothing to fear.

Life has other idea’s

That keep me away.

But please don’t

stop coming,

I still have a lot

To say.

I am having to take a break for a while. I can’t say for how long, but I hope to pop back and read any comments and reply when I can. I look forward to continuing to read your posts and banter on your blogs where possible. I will be back once I am fit and able.

But when life gives you lemons … you need to stand back and take in the scent, look at the whole tree; not just the fruit.

Breaking the Rules

photograph courtesy of Paul Miltiaru press HERE to see his beautiful photography.

feet

 

 He could walk a coastal hike

Take the road atop a bike.

Sail o’er the seas of old

On a ship that’s made of gold.

He could fight a hundred men

Chase a lion from his den.

He’d be a champion of men

The countries Olympian.

But let him walk along a street

Without shoes upon his feet

He’d ¬†bring shame and despair

On the townsfolk living there.

You can win a Quadrathlon

but never flout a road sign.

Photo of British quadrathlon team courtesy of Wikipedia.

Which rule did you break?  (Other than a parking or speed signs )

sign

I flouted¬†the rules of propriety with the above, as I thought one way, was my way…

March Marches On

Linda Hill challenges with the word March press here to read or join in the fun.

It was the sound and sight of spring,

That bouncing boxing lop eared thing.

He ruled his paddock won his mate

in his hole next the five bar gate.

The March hare mad as can be

Brings spring to life this morning for me.

Fox stalks his vixen flicks his brush

Jumps atop his choice in a rush.

Twice or thrice maybe more

grinds her into the floor

when her belly is round and full

another vixen he will pull.

March Marches to the beat

of Mother nature’s  drum

To procreate

We call her

Mum.

 

 

A bit of whimsy to warm your soul and tickle your fancy. I hope you liked it.