Tag Archives: poetry
Tap, Tap, Tapping my Way
I’m caught up in the fog
I’ve got my hands out
Feeling my way like a blind man in a haze
Tap, tap, tapping my way along,
Through life.
I don’t really know what I’m looking for
But I keep searching
I’m like a blind man fumbling in the dark
And I sometimes think I need an instruction book
So I can be flick, flick, flicking,
Through life.
There are times; I guess it’s my lot,
When I don’t understand the plot.
I’m going backwards and forwards
Trying to understand.
Fast, fast, forwarding
Through life.
One day there’ll be a break in the fog
And I’ll see the sun,
But when the answers won’t come
I’ll dream harder,
Borne back to the past by memories
Back, back, back,
Through life.
Steve Higgins is the author of Floating in Space set in Manchester, 1977. Click the links at the top of the page for more information.
The Rain
The stream becomes the river
The river becomes the sea
And the rain that washes over me
Is the rain that will set me free.
For you are my rain,
My river and my stream,
And I am the fisherman
Who loves you in his dreams.
So when I wake I’ll hold you
And take away your pain.
Love can wash the pain away
Like dust in the pouring rain.
The stream becomes the river,
The river becomes the sea.
And all our sins are washed away
When the rain washes over me.
Love Isn’t
Love isn’t some little thing that goes ding!
It isn’t a song that you can sing.
It’s not something that might happen in a flash,
It doesn’t happen while driving and cause you to crash.
Love isn’t something tangible, something you can see,
It might even be invisible, to both you and to me.
It’s something that will join us and hold us together,
It’s a feeling that will get better, whatever the weather.
Love isn’t the singing of a song
But it’s working together when things go wrong
It isn’t the chiming of a bell or the tooting of a horn
But It’s just tears of joy when a child is born.
Dylan Thomas
Time for a reblog to commemorate Dylan’s birthday today!
I love lots of writers but probably my all-time favourite is Dylan Thomas. I love the outstanding power of his writing, his incredible imagery, and the wonderful pictures he creates with his words.
Dylan also is the sort of writer I’ve always wanted to be: A bohemian, pub crawling, boozing writer who fought with himself as he laboured to paint his word pictures. Whether that was really the case I don’t know but Dylan did like his pubs and he did enjoy a drink.
The fact of the matter is that I’m nothing like Dylan, except we both share a love of words, particularly the sound of words, which is the key to the richness of Dylan’s work, especially his poetry. If you think about it, there must be a connection between the sound of a word and its meaning, a deep organic connection. After all, how did words begin? Imagine…
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When the Holiday is Over
Forget the blue skies and the swimming pool
Your desk is all ready so don’t act like a fool.
Forget the pavement cafes and Mademoiselles
As your computer fires up with a thousand e-mails
Enough to numb the pain
And the nagging desire for a glass of red wine;
Act cool.
Briefings, meetings and folders to review
Memoranda and consultations to plough through
Forget the camembert and French bread
Close the door on the plat du jour
Its not even lunch and I can’t resist
The thought of a cool aperitif;
As if . .
Revised protocols need to be sorted
And I see the new software is unsupported
I’ll enjoy my lunch in the works canteen
A ham sandwich and a cup of tea
And the memory of a French bistro won’t even arise
All bustle and chatter and joie de vivre
No, not for me . .
On the bridge
It was me that found you on that lonely road that night
I spied you on the cameras around midnight
You looked cold on top of that bridge,
I suppose you thought you’d see things in a different kind of light,
Way up on the bridge
In the middle of the night.
The ambulance was on stand by anyway
And I know you had your problems
If only you could have let on, hinted to someone
Maybe you wouldn’t have given us such a fright
But I prefer to believe you were coming down
And that you tripped or were nudged by the wind
It’s a sad place to die in the middle of a road
No one heard you call or shout
And darkness came when the lights went out.
Its a really tragic thing when death occurs on the motorway. Even though the individual will not be known to us the sadness is still there, knowing that we were unable to prevent this tragedy.
My freedom of information request to the UK highways agency revealed that there were 652 suicide attempts on the motorway in 2013;
https://www.whatdotheyknow.com/request/motorway_suicides#incoming-523298
652! That’s a heck of a lot of distraught, sad people.
The Secret of Happiness
I was happy and never knew it,
Sad and knew it so well.
Love slipped by though I hardly noticed,
yet love has marked me well.
Winter passed and summer came
yet I was living in the cold.
My love has turned and passed me by
and outside the world grows old.
Happiness is trapped for me
In a former time, where once I used to dwell.
I was happy and never knew it
Sad and knew it so well
A Girl Called Pamela Taylor
I wrote this many years ago and it was called ‘A girl called Paper Tangle.’ It was one of those inspirational poems where you suddenly get an idea and just go with it. It has a nice rhythm and trips along well but I was never happy with the ‘paper tangle’ thing. Anyway, not long ago I changed it to Pamela Taylor and the poem feels so much better. Apologies to any girl called Pamela Taylor!
A Girl Called Pamela Taylor
Pamela Taylor wears chic clothes
Designer labels, anything goes.
Her coat has buttons made of gold
She likes to be noticed, she’s bold.
Pamela Taylor wears black boots,
Her body is a gun that shoots.
She’s incredibly sexy and overtly erotic
and her taste is impossibly exotic
Pamela Taylor has blue-eyed eyes
and discreetly she enters other people’s lives.
She’ll trap you with magnetic sighs
and it’s yourself you’ll probably despise
Pamela Taylor knows all the best wine
and any man she wins in time.
She’s every scene-stealer and wheeler-dealer,
And to the social lepers she’s a saintly healer.
Pamela Taylor never pays her fees
She opens locks with other people’s keys
One look will slice you through if you tell her lies
Or nothing she can’t easily surmise.
Can you pass the bread?
Blood rising Heart pumping
You were the centre of my passion, once
Though now we meet very politely
And exchange pleasantries
And touch on former days,
Lightly
Your husband seems nice
And I like the wine he’s chosen
At a very reasonable price.
Though you must forgive me for thinking
How I much prefer the red to the white,
Tonight.
Blood rising Heart pumping
Could you pass the bread?
And how much longer can we be gracious when I’m hanging by a thread?
I’m filled with desire
And thoughts I cannot mention
So, Can you pass the bread,
Instead?
