Beyond the Sofa

We sat there and it felt good.
You said you hadn’t been
So close and comfortable
With anyone in years.

We held hands
Looking in each others eyes.
We dropped knickers
And made it to the bedroom
Just in time

To make a world for just the two of us
And leave all others way behind.
And we did so for a week.
It felt like the safest place in the world.

❤ inspired by love, reality and another poem 🙂

To know

Surrounding me, my thoughts
Are my living space, with room
For exploration.

The robe of words finds place
Around my shoulders,
Makes me feel
What I already knew.

It is all here, the dress
Waiting for occasions to be worn
As I step out to new horizons.
As I am not afraid
To let myself be known.

.

Inamorata :)

To call a spade a spade makes sense, to name
all hours of the day, each minute even, to avoid mistakes
we invented words. I think that’s why we use them.
so if you call me at eleven,
we could talk till noon or longer. Don’t kill a butterfly
but go on, eat your bacon. It’s less confusing
when all has a name.

Tiptoeing through the new-found wilderness
Avoiding stinging thistles, eagerly digged rabbit holes,
the ones that get me into trouble, and the bitter berry bushes,
I need a compass to find out from where I came, as
I am going nowhere anyway. Not even in circles. I do not move.

‘Stay who you are’, I’ve only that to guide me
while I’m standing still. While I try to be a part of freakin nature.
If that’s enough, this horrid Autumn too
will pass me by. And I shall proudly wear my new-found name.

Needy

The one thing I don’t want to be
Is needy. Nor depending.
I try to act the better me.

At times it’s good to cry
But flooding over can’t be right,
I’m not that needy – am I?

I try to make it on my own
Without too much complaining,
But still when I’m alone

When sadness comes to get me,
I whine and sob, out of control.
This can’t be good? Or maybe

I’m human, therefore needy.

Feeling just a bit needy today  … yuck

 

Don’t Let them Judge

They judge your silence, or your sound,
Not that they hear nor listen much,
The way you live makes them astound
And so the like to keep a grudge.

But they don’t realise it’s them
Who are the sinners as they stay
In loveless marriages, and damn
Their pointing fingers and dismay.

Let no one tell you not to love,
but leave the narrow-minded town.
Look up, and keep your head above.
Let no one ever bring you down!

Inspired by ‘This Be the Verse’ by Philip Larkin.  I did a sort of do it yourself workshop in poetry I suppose  🙂

The Wind is Blowing a Hooligan

My dear friend David Agnew (Belfastdavid) from Whitby, England, is the author of this beautiful new poetry book that you can order through Amazon, Lulu  and various other sites (just google 🙂 )
Paperback, 82 Pages Prints in 3-5 business days

“The significance of David’s recent poetry rests in its everydayness, finding poems in the way we get through our days. By exploring issues that are not always the issues and incidents that make up poetry, his poems take on a collective meaning that reaches deep into the human spirit.” – Tom Davis.
“In the pace of a calm whisper the poetry of David Agnew shows us sides of ordinary life we often miss: the funny side, the deep side, the understatement. Years of living and a talent for details make this poet write surprisingly, uniquely, about every day situations in such a persuasive way. Whitby citizens will be proud of this poetry in honour of their town!” – Ina Schroders-Zeeders.

I hope you will get a copy.

Afternoon

When, like there is an earthquake, I feel love,
And aftershock by aftershock goes on, my mind
Is only living in the moment.

So much there is not to be thought,
No word is needed and no promise made.
I find a fact of life I had not sought.

Without a claim the feeling stays with me,
I am contented in so many ways, renewed
And yes, I meant it every time
To happen as you made it.

How do I know

How do I know
when time is right,
what matters most,
how to express?
 

I have forgotten those skills
between
the eighties
and a funeral

 
when all was for granted
and I took it as such.
A hand on my knee
would mean: let us go,
 

but how do I know
what it means in new language,
on a double reclining chair
and my feet losing ground?

 
There may be a sign
but I’ll probably miss it,
these times are confusing
but I’m up for part two.
 

How do I know
that I’m alright for living,
and my stumbling on
will be a marching again?

(Whitby, 29 September 2016)