Isn’t that all of it,
to reach up to the sun
with fists filled with golden sand,
the hot grains fleeing through the cracked clasp,
and for the sun’s shine to be
silvered by the passing
moods of the earth.
All of it
poetry
Exile Crisis
Held at ransom by the Foxton Cartel,
Local 2 bed mansions – guilded
in wheelie bin refuse, styled beaten brick chic.
Unattainable from the past’s sepia optimism.
la vie indisponible
available part ownership, deposit
a 100% addition to the student deficit.
Discounts free
to those with finances pristine Waitrose white.
25% of your days,
for your net total years.
a scheme helping the capital
grasp at the 1%’s remnance.
To venture with an old friend
Or advance a trembling true love,
Inflate your equity
To bleed for the benevolent extortion.
Your life now only available in part-
ownership.
Once Was You
The crook of her mother’s brow
shapes her earth toned world view,
reducing glitter to dust.
Grains of sun flee her eyes,
washed away
rhythmically lapping at her cut glass cheeks.
Each breath, drawing in a fearfully rose future;
fragile desires dashed
within her insecure moods.
Her palms gasp – parched.
Feet unmoved from where she stood
when she first said hello.
Good Morning
Half a cup of 20 second brewed tea
the rest poured through the sink
from my wide lipped enamel cup.
My allocated snooze-time the victor, overrunning this morning.
The lone seat left is a child’s naughty step
At the tram’s front facing the wall.
Flying passed crossed junctions with Warsan Shire, Frank O’Hara and Seamus in toe.
Today’s a steely blue
like those eyes that seem to just look right through you…
picking apart your thoughts before they leave your lips.
A cheeky wave to Amaal as I ascend
to the 1st floor where I see the little bees filing in.
Their heads bowed, hands concealed,
rolling lint
remnant of the tissue they forgot in the wash.
Hyacinth
You see
It lies in the false titles
given to those that bear the fruit.
To gain a recognition for deeds done,
the end goal not always in sight.
See… the warmth is blue,
a sombre heat without light
A form of cold pragmatism,
through exchanges of pregnant love.
You see directions are issued,
But to what end should that suffice?
We don’t all crave a destination, but instead
to be hooked – within two arms.
Paris
Close I see
curling tides of crimson hue
not in my name, though
bereft of what to do.
Victoria
I catch you just as you slyly slink away,
the hideously trendy homme across, next
to you – peering to our volly of glances,
His Cos demeanor cool
underpinned
by his atrocious cut chinos.
The deep rumble hurtles us along
the Victoria line -London’s blue artery,
it’s horizon a convincing night’s impression.
They were green
Or perhaps hazel
Our waltzing glances stealing covert gazes, Each a
second shy of a moment.
It’s been a long time.
Starting a new job I’ve been away from the keyboard for sometime, I’m still writing I assure you!
I’ll be sharing a poem tomorrow and have others in store for you soon.
Squirreling away words,
in the extreme ends of a 12 hour shift.
I’m still writing.
J.C. FitzDerick 