gair rhydd: Poetry

Simple Words

These are just the words I am writing

They are not clever or superb or sublime

Wasting away the time,

Hand in hand with the gin-and-lime.

In Loving Memory

The pigeon, with wings like crushed newspaper browned by a mud puddle,

breaks away into the grey sky with a single stomp of my foot,

On Clouds

I’m on Clouds, in my Stars tonightand I whisper a kiss gentle to sweet Earth good-byeso, may I sleep, pray feel closer to you?

Feels like home

Every corner I fear will be my last,

crawling up this mountain side.

A dark watermelon rolls down the aisle slowlyand crushed peanut shells slip past my feet.

Mi Amor, El Mar.

A fragrant jasmine breath lingers softly on my lips;

Surging golden rays ripple warmth over my skin.

The soothing aloe pacifies the bitter lemon tree,

For empty beds
Silent words;
I think that’s why we fill them.
Because, sometimes, it’s nice not to have to speak;
Talking, whilst all the while longing for silence.
You: a terrible ripple of reflection
Crowded by hot glassy contact.
As we lunged at the photocopy between us,
Arching to get a better view of ourselves in the other, I noticed
A me-like form dressed in lemon sheets.
You see, all attraction is narcissistic:
I have beautiful hair! You have beautiful hair!
Wanting to hear flattery from another –
Our own silly justifications.
If I speak will you listen?
Both of us hoping that
This time,
It really might be different.
I think I’ll just go now, you’ll say, tomorrow, but you needn’t have spoken.
It really might be different
This time;
Both of us hoping that
If I speak you will listen.
Our own silly justifications
Wanting to hear flattery. From another:
“I have beautiful hair.” “You have beautiful hair”.
You see, all attraction is narcissistic.
A me-like form dressed in lemon. Sheets
Arching, to get a better view of ourselves. In the other I noticed
(As we lunged at the photocopy between us
Crowded by hot glassy contact)
You. A terrible ripple of reflection,
Talking. Whilst all the while longing for silence
Because sometimes it’s nice not to have to speak.
I think that’s why we fill them:
Silent words
For empty beds.

Passenger Seat

When you’re second-in-command to the road
Ahead, a road filled with the year’s buzzing summer,
It’s an anticipation of sorts. You
Fill yourself up with the dry car, reeking
Of ripening sweat, your own companionable smell.
Things start to look like thoughts of home: that lady,
For instance, the one in the clever blue
Sundress, hanging her story by the roadside
On dusty pegs. Or the heaps of barrels
Next to the café, shaded by fig trees.
These things slink across your vision until
The radio’s chorus nudges you back
Into being. It stutters its way from
The backseat; a song that swirls and then after, rests.
The village dies out slowly, leaving itself
Behind, purring at the foot of the hill.

Creeping Thoughts

Startling, like the instant crackling of clouds
A sound can be heard from my pillow. It seems
All dreams
Delight in chasing themselves back around.

Bath

All is basic. You,
smothered by candyflossed air
lower
your being, daydrained
into the tub. Ribbons of steam ooze up excitedly
to greet your red naked mass:
raw, prawnpeeled, whiff
of flesh
slip-dipped, sliding happily
into water, yours.
The taps sweat shapes that make patterns
in your mind.

Gair Rhydd

Creative Writing - Poetry

Simple Words

In Loving Memory

On Clouds

Feels like home

Mi Amor, El Mar.

Silence, Silence

Passenger Seat

Creeping Thoughts

Bath

Eve's woman

Delicate Days

Little Brother

Match Day Memories

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