My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

Archive for the category “Sounds”

11 Mar 2021
1 Comment

Pavement

I walk the pavement,
Why would I walk anywhere else,
when I can avoid the chewing gum,
the discarded face masks,
the cracks and the dogshit?

I breathe in the petrol,
the diesel,
the LPG,
and the hum of electric cars.

Two-stroke scooters battle big-engined cars
as they vie for the same space,
for their little piece of road.

Everyone’s going somewhere,
everyone’s got a destination,
home to their evening:
the nagging wife,
the bottle of wine,
the TV sound,
the steak dinner.

A thousand thoughts in a thousand cars,
a thousand distracted minds
all wanting to get where they’re going…
or maybe not.

A thousand different things to do,
but no one’s doing what I’m doing:
walking,
while avoiding the chewing gum,
the discarded face masks,
the cracks and the dogshit.

 

Posted in city life, Free verse, Humour, life, Lugano, poem, poet, Poetry, Sounds, thoughts, Travel, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,
12 Dec 2020
2 Comments

Broken Silence

Today I heard the beat of a swan’s wings

I’d never heard it before

It broke the silence of the smoke of a cigarette

It rippled the silence of a glass of wine

I followed the swan across the still of the lake

I followed its flight across the face of the winter sun

Today I heard the beat of a swan’s wings

and wished I could fly

Posted in imagination, Micropoetry, peace, poem, poet, Poetry, Sounds, thoughts, Winter, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , ,
19 Nov 2020
5 Comments

Good morning

The subtle scream of a distant ambulance

the harsh cry of a crow

the hum of the elevator

and her soft breathing beside me.

The fingers of dawn yet to creep through the blinds

the alien glow of the alarm clock

the annoying too-early church bells

disturb the darkness of the room.

I get up.

Good morning.

Posted in Free verse, morning, poem, Poetry, Sounds, time, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , ,
22 Jun 2019
7 Comments

The sea’s breath 

Yesterday I felt the sea breathing
as I watched the wind-strewn waves;
some breaths shallow, others ocean deep.
I fell into their rhythm
and breathed in the salt spray
and breathed out my soul in return:
sea salt spray for my soul
or what part of it I leave here.

Today I heard the sea choking
it’s breath no longer a rhythm
but a slow death rattle.
I walked in to it, embraced it
but plastic caressed my fingers,
tightened and gripped my hand
and embraced me, as I wanted to embrace the sea.
I pulled, and the plastic relented
the more I pulled, the more it came
but still the sea couldn’t breathe.

Tomorrow the wind will still blow
and the salt will still tang the air
and the waves still sigh upon the shore
and where once the seagulls cried
the only sound will be the empty laughter
of the few that profited from the many
of those who took from the Earth
and spat back its destruction.

Yesterday I felt the sea breathing
and wondered how long it would last.
Posted in extinction, Horror, humans, life, poem, poet, Poetry, Sea, Sounds, time, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
09 Apr 2019
2 Comments

Silence

Staring at four bare walls

unavoidable, inescapable

No sound, just silence

Not even the mechanical sound

of time passing

as a welcome distraction

The silence isn’t deafening

but the thoughts are.

If they had colour

it would be grey

If they had sound

it would be a low, lost hum.

Posted in Free verse, imagination, pain, poem, Poetry, senses, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , ,
30 Sep 2018

Sunday morning coffee

Early Sunday morning walk,
hungover.

Squinting in the morning light

Cappuccino with a double shot of coffee
and eyes that finally open

with the hoarse caw of the crow
and the hoarse voice of the barmaid
who must smoke a packet

or spend her life shouting
above the noise of the cutlery
being put in its place

as the coffee machine whirs
and the people sit
over their Sunday morning papers

as the cappuccino goes down
and the day opens up.

Posted in Free verse, images, Lugano, poem, poesia, poet, Poetry, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
25 Sep 2018

Observations from a waiting room

The stairs crush my knees and steal my breath

and I get to the top and I ring the bell

and I enter the surgery but the waiting room

is empty except for the noise

because the window is open

and the noise from the street competes

with the radio newsreader’s urgency

to tell me the headlines and I can’t hear them

but maybe it’s a blessing because

I don’t want to hear them because

everyone has a missile pointed at someone else

and it’s always someone else’s fault

and everyone is trigger-happy

or God-fearing happy-clappy

and it’s mine versus yours anyway

and now the smell of the floor cleaner joins in with the noise

and the headlines as they vie for my senses

and it makes no sense and my knees hurt

and I can’t hear myself think

and I can’t feel myself breathe

and then the doctor comes out

and asks me how I am…

I’m here, aren’t I?

Posted in Free verse, humans, imagination, life, poet, Poetry, senses, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
15 Nov 2017

Symphony and scream

The air is filled with the symphony of a thousand broken hearts shattered into a thousand pieces while the remaining void is alive with the anonymous scream of a thousand voices, cried bloody and hoarse.

Symphony and scream

 

Posted in poem, poesia, poet, Poetry, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment
30 Dec 2015

The crawling night

The cheap quartz wall clock ticked its way through the dark minutes and hours in the studio.  It wasn’t loud yet he was convinced he could still hear it, even with the door closed.  He turned his face from one hot side of the pillow to the other. Still sleep evaded him.

The mind plays its darkest games in those still hours, when fears are more real.  The swoosh of the scythe, like a knife through silk, is only a stroke away, and death stalks those wakeful thoughts.  Car crashes become unavoidable.  Work-related accidents a matter of time and media-induced paranoia of acts of terrorism places packages in every hidden shadow.

He flicked on the small book-light under the duvet and read a chapter of his latest acquisition, a paperback fiction bought at the station when the tannoy announced the cancellation of the train, and the drizzle continued unabated.

Satisfied, he flicked off the light and closed his eyes.  He twisted.  He turned.  His brain churned.  Damn it.  His ears strained for the faint sounds of the wall clock but this time he could hear nothing.  Content, he tried the new breathing exercises he’d been shown and tried to relax.  No good.  His mind shifted up to fourth.  He was awake.  A sigh passed his parted lips and, rising slowly to avoid making noise, he got out of bed.

He sat at the desk in his studio.  He opened his notebook, took a pen from its holder and listened to the clock tick its way through the dark minutes and hours.

Posted in Flash Fiction, insomnia, Madness, Sounds, stories, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
30 Jun 2015
1 Comment

Sounds of morning

The summer sun sighs through the strains of a morning

So humid

I open a window;

to sounds that fill my space

 

The unwinding of the blinds on another day

A car coughs

and a motorcycle

screams down the motorway

 

Birds wittering and nattering in an air

thick with heat

a fly whines, a bee hums

as a cat pads through grass

 

No breeze murmurs in this sultry morning,

just scratching

as my pen rolls across the page

like a bead of sweat between the shoulder blades

Posted in poesia, poet, Poetry, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
09 Mar 2015
6 Comments

Drown me

Walking
waves breaking
white foam
flying
gulls crying
as the wind whips their voices

Behind closed eyes
salt sting
breathing
as the sea sighs its song
And laps and slaps the strand

Fickle mistress!
Ever moving
ever changing
From a shallow sigh this ocean roars
as the gull soars
lighter than the air
that carries its story
on the wings of the wind

Posted in poesia, poet, Poetry, Sea, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , ,
20 Oct 2014

The shrink and syllable

Message / psycho / disyllable

Sounds like an English pub name, in fact, should I ever own a pub (dangerous Farley, dangerous) it wouldn’t be a bad one.  I digress.  This piece came from an early morning idea of opening the dictionary, closing my eyes and jabbing my finger three times and seeing what words were found…the first two were ok. At 7am I really had to think about ‘disyllable’ though. Anyway, I gave myself 20 minutes for the exercise and it rolled out like this:

***

He sat there staring at me, just wouldn’t drop his eyes. I could feel myself squirming inside, uncomfortable was not word enough for how I felt. In some far off corner of my brain though I rationalised; he had a point, some twisted logic that made his argument plausible. He waited.

“You must understand Mr Brunton that I am not an expert in that field.”

Yes, but what do you actually think doctor?”

Well, I suppose if I had an opinion I could proffer it, I guess I can’t see the harm.”

He waited. I cleared my throat. I wasn’t so much worried about his reaction, I found myself wanting his approval. I held his gaze.

“The first thing is you need to stop thinking everything is some kind of subliminal message, with some hidden agenda. It really isn’t like that. You…”

“Doctor, you work for the system, you would say that.”

“System? What system? I am a psychologist Mr Brunton, you came to me remember?” I heard my tone change. No matter what the situation I’ve always kept a lid on my feelings. Impartiality is my middle name. However, with this psycho sitting in front of me thinking God knows what about me, whilst the colour drained and returned to his face with every fleeting emotion that raced through his mind, his eyes constantly wandering round the room. I could feel tiny bubbles of anger rising up, like champagne in a flute glass.

“There is nothing untoward about it,” I continued, “and I really don’t see the problem Mr Br…”

“Ah! But you wouldn’t would you doctor. For you it isn’t a problem you’ve ever considered. How many people go through life blatantly ignoring fundamental questions such as these? Too many I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Mr Brunton.”

“You ignore these things at your peril doctor. These issues must be confronted, they have to be…”

MR BRUNTON!” I was now shaking visibly and any trace of impartiality had flown out of the window or crawled under the door. “Mr Brunton, I am not an expert in either linguistics or grammar, therefore I will now find you the contact details of the Oxford English Dictionary, whereupon you can contact them yourself and ask them just why the word “disyllable”, which means a word containing two syllables, itself actually contains four.”

Posted in Blog, Creation, Dialogue, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Humour, imagination, Insanity, Madness, Short Fiction Stories, Sounds, story, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
29 Jul 2014

The rain; incessant

The counter-argument for global warming as central Europe shows absolutely no sign of becoming a desert just yet.  We’ve had rain since May; I’m sure I never experienced a summer like this in England…

***

The rain; incessant
Incandescent, the lightning
Incisions in the dark
Scalpel thin and scalpel clean

The rain; incessant
Torrential, never ending
Chinese water torture
For the soul: where is the sun?

The rain; incessant
Artillery-like thunder
Huge calibre backdrop
As I sit, willing the sun

Posted in Blog, poesia, poet, Poetry, Sounds, thunderstorm, weather, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
14 Jul 2014

Lunch in the park

Sun beating, sun shining
People walking, people watching
Trees growing, green leaves
Groundsmen cutting, green grass
Lake lapping, water’s edge
Water sparkling, countless diamonds

Birds singing, birds flying
Ducks swimming, swans snobbing
Violinists playing, Mozart scales
Me sitting, listening
Not speaking, just thinking
Eating lunch in the park

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Posted in Birds, Micropoetry, Music, poesia, poet, Poetry, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
05 Jul 2014

Happy place

Puerto La Savina is a happy place
in the early morning.
It’s not a miserable place filled
with the miserable grey shouts
and whistles of a city port.

It thrums; it thrums with
sound of boat engines.
It is happy,
basking in the sun.

Brooms sweep the pavement
and early morning walkers walk.
A thicket of masts wave
with the sigh of the sea.
It is a happy place.

Posted in Non fiction, poesia, poet, Poetry, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
09 May 2014
2 Comments

Spring morning

Spring morning, spring dawning.
Sparrow, starling, blackbird
in unison calling,
out their names, and
singing loud their songs.
What is the language
of the birds that I hear?

As my love sleeps,
a sleep content
and undisturbed.
Whilst I, I alone
sit with eyes and ears open,
to the coming of the dawn,
as the birds greet the morn
and each other.

“Good morning to you too,”
I say, as I open the window
and breathe in the air,
as yet untouched
by the waking of man
of cars and vans.

Enjoy the moment
though in silence
it not be.
As the break of day
not far away,
has been announced to me.

Posted in Birds, Non fiction, poesia, poet, Poetry, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
13 Jan 2014
3 Comments

Sound Travels

In the cold January air flame and smoke disappear

but the sound goes on forever. 

The pistol crack; the victim’s gasp,

dead before his wide-eyed head smashes against the pavement;

the screams of the passers-by;

the shouting policemen holding them back;

the wailing ambulance;

the knock, apologetic, on the door;

the crying, desperate,

left without a husband and father;

the monotone of the priest;

the 12 clicking heels take the coffin;

the sobs of the veiled

and the final, definite scraping of soil,

thrown from shovel to grave. 

The shot was still ringing out.

Posted in crime, Fiction, Micropoetry, murder, poesia, poet, Poetry, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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