the slushpile

Here is a little ditty I wrote this morning attempting to get the attention of a little poetry publishing house. If you are that publishing house and are now reading this - then haha... It worked.

the slushpile

some would question
whether this is wise
to somewhat ruin the surprise
of what is to come
when you look round the corner
and see the lyrics buried
in my tiny eyes.
but reach out I must
to cast my wears
upon the slush pile
with the rest...
...why is there no rest
for those who would rather toil
than smile.
so here is my work
the chicken scratching
of my finger tips
that may be worth
a penny to the masses
and if it turns out not
they can come after me
with their fiery whips.

Wembley Skies

As today is National Poetry Day, here is a little one of my own from the Sunday Latte Lamentations Archive, which I am hoping to include in a published volume someday *sigh*... Thoughts welcome!

Wembley skies Arch raised Ablaze with roars Of soul’s unfazed Empty poster boards Remind to mind the gap And stay on track Tell me to keep it down Not for country or crown But for peace. Not much found here Except the dripping drops Of inspiration as the Teams scores for the nation

Another stop passes One more unmasked station It’s not my stop But hearing my destination A promise of home Turns into expectation. So I mind the closing doors And release the emergency handle. Focusing on my candle Stick maker, I forget, The butcher and head on into Baker Street, to take my pick A fleet of franchise Each providing a new need.

Grabbing my companion in a cup The beer ad’s ‘wassup?’ Leaves no sting, A warm sofa seat, Whose heat I don’t feel. Just His warmth as the layers He peels back, reveals That little bit of His, That is already mine. Beyond this congestion zone Is something more glorious Not just ‘fine’. Beyond this groan Is a place called home. Not just where the heart is But where I know and am known..

7.5 Minutes of Dark

Packed in tightFaces knit with early morning woes Others enraptured by tabloid poetry A select few in broadsheet prose As we descend in to our 7.5 minutes of black Between walls never seen Staring dully back At commuting communities Whose names not even they know Track lights flicker Shuttled forward in to their days Disgorged into the light unchanged Wishing they had arrived quicker

So the search continues

So another knock backAnother rejection Why is there so few acceptance emails Buy so many to improve your erection? All I'm asking is for one Just someone to see this talent Step back from qualifiations To see a man trying to pay the rent They said the world is my oyster But all I'm left with is shellshock Trying learn the lessons of patience With life built on the rock. I know that Jesus loves me Of that I have no doubt He's got credit no crunch can touch Enough fight to win any bout Just wishing he'd give me more A sign a touch a vision Until then I'll stick With prayer and petition.

The pursuit

When stevensons rocket first took the rails, the trails it would blaze where unchartered When Paul faced Nero to declare the Lord's name, who new how many more would be martyred.

When the first cable carried alexanders dreams from his mind to the recieving ear, who knew how many lies would grace the airwaves, why are we still shocked when our words tear asunder those we love, when once spoken they actually hear?

Why then all the more, do we seek to patch and repair, with empty gestures for cotton thread, and hollow words to bring to bear?

Consequences of ones actions, often not well thought, through or with, or out. Maybe if we did, we would seldom speak that which we nearly spout.

For though his timing is perfect, our patience is not, and so we charge on through. For at that speed all else seems to crumble, but who is truely sinking is actually you.