Tag: Poetry

Why do buzzards sit in the field?

Note: this is written as a spoken word poem so get your rap on! I will attempt and upload a voice recording later.

Did you know buzzards have FOMO?
You can watch them moving in SloMo,
On a soggy field far from Soho.
Rat girl summer is over Fosho.

Buzzards just wanna kick-it.
Choosing mud over thicket.
Picking worms is the ticket,
Seeing others chum a big hit.

That’s how the crowd begun:
They flew over mates having fun,
Stagger through mud like RayGun,
Hunting for worms on the run.

Background story

In a field close by, usually over the winter, we observe dozens of buzzards gathering, but only that one field! There are none (with maybe the odd exception) in any of the other fields, although the conditions appear to be the same. So some digging through forums has unearthed that buzzards indeed gather based on seeing other buzzards already sitting in the field–hence the FOMO (fear of missing out)!

If you are like me a bit too grey around the edges for the youth slang

FOMO = Fear Of Missing Out
SloMo – Slow Motion
Fosho = For Sure (feeling like the cool aunt as I learned this from the nephew)
chum = is not just fish food but also hanging out together

Midsummer Again

Congested heat slams into my body.
I drown in silence; all movement seizes.
Someone has pressed the pause button!
Trees remain with crowns bent over water.
Yellow lilies paint freckles on the perfect mirror image.
A silver-grey sculpture blends into the reed.
Elegant neck and focussed eyes betray liveliness.
Yet, not even the fish are moving.
Suddenly, songbirds burst into action.
A cacophony of sound selected freeze frame.
Everything else remains motionless.
Even the damselflies are glued to the reeds.
I force myself to take a step,
In sluggish slow motion.
And nothing happens, no sound escapes my step.
I am caught betwixt and between,
In this here midsummer night’s dream.

canal with waterlilies and lush green trees on both sides

On the wooden swing

while on the swing
sky—grass—sky—grass—ska
the wee girl sings
la—dee—la—dee—da
proud fae listening
ha—hum—ha—hum—haha
fairies dance dew glistening
tap—toes—tap—toes—ta
song birds swirl cheerily
flip—flap—flip—flap—fla
fox sings along eerily
howl—bark—howl—bark–ba
lighting bugs zoom along
zip—zap—zip—zap—za
cricket contributes to song
zirp—chirp—zirp—chirp—cha
lady bugs a circle dance
tam—dee—tam—dee—ta
even the grumpy toad chants
oak—croak—oak—croak—cra
while the wee girl sings
la—dee—la—dee—da
sitting on the wooden swing
sky—grass—sky—grass—ska

From the Ashes

I am rising from the ashes like a drunk phoenix
Unsteady feet and a chest full of fire
Ash falls from feathered appendages
I blink at this new born world in wonder

Sea harr burnt off by cleansing fire
The cold fog lifted from my thoughts
A path meanders lazily along the clifftop
Carrying me unsteadily into a new life

Love the ever burning power
Pulsating against my breastbone
Force of life stoking fire
I shake off the last ash and begin to walk

On the Bus


heat on the brink of intolerability
radiator under the seat
my lips burst in dry heat
even the fake leather is hot
my head against the cold window
scratched milky pane
the city moves past distorted
my backpack on the seat beside me
a men-spreading prevention system
I take a deep breath and quickly exhale
smell of old diesel motor
exhaust gritty in my mouth
and yet
despite heat encroaching
despite fumes
despite stranger’s crotches
I am relieved
For I don’t have to carry time
time clamps my chest
weighs down my shoulders
yet here in movement
I don’t have to carry time
frustrating forced flow forward
is paused
I want to meander
I want to press hold on a moment
I want to go back
I want to jump ahead
I want to rest extended in space
until I am ready to continue again
and right now
right here
I am free
the bus splutters along the road
carrying time and movement for me
my thoughts wander along the rhizomes of life
resting at nodes of have and could have beens

My first Chapbook

Or poetry pamphlet in BE

So I figured it might be time to try something different and put this out there.

https://amzn.eu/d/eOJ1Xbs (image below is the cover page)

Asthma Attack

I can barely lift my feet.
Lungs held in a vice of worry.
Frozen uproar hits my face
straight on.

I am a fish drowning on land.
Breath does not translate.
All energy is draining
out of me.

Snowstorm, inner storm.
Anxiety rising way beyond.
The taillight flickering
in and out.

Everyone is up ahead.
And yet the hill keeps rising.
I wish I were just tired
or a bit puffed.

That’s likely what they think.
That I am a drama queen.
Who just can’t handle
some discomfort.

I’m wading through treacle.
Longing for medication
that translates breath
into life.



Winter Mountain Training

Be bothered
Check each other
Layers off
Layers on
Gloves yes
Gloves no
Kick crampons
into icy snow

Be bothered
Be bothered just so
Stay warm
But not hot
Hydrate
Find a spot
Take a photo
Go wee

Be bothered
Poles out
Poles in
Ice axe out
Helmet on
–Always
Sturdy gloves
Feet sideways

Be bothered
Be bothered just so
Waterproofs
Wooly socks
Self-Belay
Avoid the rocks
Play in snow
And be bothered

Be bothered just so

it’s blowing a hooley

Shifter

Balancing sanity on the volatile precipice of art—
A thwarted strategy I realise especially at night
When verity and spectres are tortuous to tell apart,
And yet they banish loneliness in the Eremite,
Smooth wood gently gripped as I set to task
In the dark cold winter’s night I dream of sunny shores,
Yet when a blue cold morning dawns I’m going to don my mask
Don humanhood till moonrise when I’m going hunt the moors—
So I am caught forever in-between the spectres’ cast,
Despondency heavy in my breast,
lest hope may swell,
Into ember, warmth, unrest,
A low growl and deep breath,
I shall remain forever in-between maybe even after death.

In a writing course on Future Learn we were challenged to write a Terminal based on “Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art” by JOHN KEATS

This is not Foraging

The wicker basket hangs vacant off my back.
The leather straps move loosely across my shoulders.
I am slumped over the hollow pit in my stomach,
As if to protect the rising ball of fury.
Gentle fingers stroke the broken limbs,
Torn stumps of frayed wood-fibre.
Sap bleeds with silent screams from a dozen wounds.
A sob violently ripples through my body.
Hot tears fall onto cold wilting leaves.
“Leave no trace.” Opa* taught me.
“Your foraging should go unnoticed.”
I bent down and pick up a broken digit.
Before I survey the clump of damaged Rowans.
Not even green berries are left here,
Leaves and limbs carelessly discarded.
The disregard a visceral vice around my skin.
Eventually the ball of fury escapes as hot curses:
“May this pain return to you seven fold!”
This is not foraging.
Hands on rough bark, salt mixes with sap.

close up of a ripe rowan berry umbel, background removed

*Opa = Granddad in German