I sat in bed one morning
With a note pad on my knee
When in wondered my Charlie
And he snuggled up to me
...
The moon was born with Earth they say
Two vortex, large and small
Of gas and dusty nebula
And gravitation's pull
...
I tried to write a poem
whilst drunk
I thunk and I thunk
which is hard when you're drunk
...
When Autumn knocks and hangs his leafy coat up by the door
Drifting slowly in and leaving footprints on the floor
He drags along behind him his dormant pathogens
The central heating shakes them and their Summer slumber ends
...
Oh what an annoyance
It happens to be
When my bladder, at night
Wakes me up for a wee
...
Some poems are simplistic
They don't wear cryptic
lipstick
They never try to force it
...
'Lets eat, grandma! 'Said the man with a grin.
He squeezed her bony hand in despair
'I know what I fancy for dinner today'
They peered inside, all the cupboard was bare
...
She wants to swim
I feel her pulling at my surface
In her cage, stirring
The waters lap to torment her chagrin
...
Your muse is a starfish in midnights' ocean
She lives deep, embedded in your soul
In tired agitation you tore off her arms
Knowing full well that they would regrow
...
Meet me for this one last coffee
So we can kiss our last goodbyes
Sit close and be as awkward as me
(one more look into your eyes)
...
Did you spot the girl
Who sat all alone,
On a bench in a playground
Outcast and unknown? ......
...
Floccinaucinihilipilification
floc-ci-nau-ci-ni-hi-li-pi-li-fi-ca-tion. (breathe)
On last count it has 12 syllables, I do believe
...
You wouldn't write a song and not ask a voice to share.
A balloon's a useless thing if you don't fill it with air.
We wouldn't make a hammer for a nail not to be hit
And who would craft a chair, then allow no one to sit
...
Stalking in the shadow of syllables
Drooling at the curves of translucent lines
Slipping your warped finger under the hem of stanza
You transverberate through every victims creation
...
Whilst walking to work through Brunswick Square
A man on a bench went to stand
He wore a brown suit and he had auburn hair
And a notebook was poised in his hand
...
Can I cry and get over you now?
Dear heart,
Stop your bleeding
Stem the flow
...
The wishes that are washed in tears
Are for a pitied child
Who knows no love and warmth of heart
I wish this reconciled
...
I am just starting out. I write for me mostly (I think way too much and this serves as an outlet for my very busy mind) . It is fun to share to see if anyone gets anything from them, like a sparked memory, a giggle or some sort of connection. They are nothing amazing, compared to many on here! But I enjoy writing them and to me, that is all that should really matter. X)
A Lesson On Poetry From My Five Year Old
I sat in bed one morning
With a note pad on my knee
When in wondered my Charlie
And he snuggled up to me
He said, 'You writing poems?
We are learning that at school
I know a lot about them'
I said, 'Really mate, how cool'
He stared at me intently
As he stretched out on the bed
His legs crossed at the ankle
And a hand propped up his head
After I had sorted through
And read back what I'd penned
He slid off of the bed
And peered up at me from the end
He stayed there quite transfixed
It kinda put me off my flow
I looked over my glasses
But he wasn't gonna go!
'Mum' he said ' has it got all
the things a poem ought
It should include good rhyme and rhythm
That's what I've been taught
Does it have some repetition
And patterns that are clear
What theme have you gone for? '
I smiled from ear to ear.
My Charlie, you've remembered well
It's Impressive, what you know
What else have you been taught then?
His face with pride did glow!
He ummed and arghed a little bit
To recall all he could
'Oh yeah, you need some 'wow words' too
They'll make it really good! '
I nodded with an 'oh I see,
Well thanks for all your tips'
He came and leant his head on mine
And kissed me on the lips
He left me to my writing
How adorable he'd been
And I put my first idea aside
And wrote one about him!
Why have we not heard from you of late Stevie? A new offering please but only if you've had a visit from the muse! Regards, Joe Hughes
she is phenomenal with her work...i just love to read her poems all day long cause they are so sweet and happy.....i just love her poems
Am thinking about setting up a support unit for people who are utterly addicted to the work of this beautiful artist. We would all be late for everything, but our souls would be well fed and singing. Stevie's poetry fills up what is empty and heals what is broken because she is love and magic in prose....a treasure xxx
Stevie is a masterful poet who never fails to make you feel each and every line. She employs a skillful ease to craft metaphors that smoothly steer the audience directly to her desired destination.