About spugpoet

Words are quite important to me. My passion is writing and the spoken word. I am an English teacher, but this does not mean that I sit behind my screen analysing the words I use: I try to write when my hand won't let me stop. Inspiration, for me, needs to come from something I see or feel. I am enthusiastic by nature and try to see each glass as brimming, not just half-full.

Brick Wall

(Rambling late night verse – not my finest hour)

Banging my head against a brick wall.
An endless glut of profanity builds within.
Nonsense, wrong tense, grammar and vague comment.
Rubbish reason, essay treason and fragile talent broken.
If it’s not one thing, it’s another with them.
I’m losing all faith in their ability.
It’s harsh, but true, start afresh and renew.
If I continue to thwack my head against this brick wall, maybe some blood soaked grey matter will spray onto their conscious mind? Thought not.
I will, definitely, persevere.
I will, hopefully, succeed.
I will, probably, break.
We’ll carry on smacking away at that wall.

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Sixteen Two Thirteen

IMG_0079

For Rachel.

Five times the air,
Breathing a million times.
Five times the earth,
Endless miles before us.
Five times time and space,
Forever is all we are.
Five, the number of now.
Ten, fifteen, numbers to go.

Always and forever,
Five times my Lion Girl,
Numbers to the future.

Cemetery Stone

A jungle of empty white lines.
As my feet cling to the grey concrete, I find my eyes gazing
Towards the poppy field, the flowering lamppost, the sea of ashes.
Endless spray carnations, fixed to a point in time,
A place where each timeline ceased forevermore.
Shifting nervously, my feet find the path to the petal;
It’s is flowering with fresh grieving.
Wives and husbands,
Mothers and fathers,
Sisters and brothers,
Daughters and sons.
Eventually my steps lighten to find
The vast green expanse,
No bigger than his hospital room.
Crouching feels appropriate,
Speaking doesn’t.
No urge have I ever had to speak
Beyond the soil and stone in front of me,
Nor have I ever envisaged an omniscient presence
That can be reached like a takeaway deity.
Bearded ressurectionists or biblical optimists
Bare no sway in this way.
Sitting here feels like resolution,
For myself, for my father, for my mother, and my brother.

Eyebrows

This poem will only affect around 20 people, all of which were present when the idea was first developed. They are both the inspiration and the purpose for this piece. At least, they seemed to enjoy it.

Painted expressions of faceless crimes.
She is traditional in today’s photo frame.
Criminality brushed on, to accentuate the person inside,
Locating its centre in how the others view you.
I am sorry though, as a figure head that dreads this.
But, you know that, no that, no not that, that, yeah that, and that.
Well, that’s not allowed.
I’m sorry, but them’s the rules.
Honestly I am.
I means, I realise it’s stating the obvious, seen as everything else is spelt an smelt out in this place,
And I don’t just means this, it’s more then this, it’s this, that, them, and the other thing we won’t discuss.
I digress, but I just want to say,
You, and they, and I, are ours,
Our own and ours alone.
Don’t let them take that.

Time Snatcher

Submitted to OpenLinkNight with dVersePoets on Tuesday 4th December.

Bags of time sag endlessly over the mind’s eye.
They cloud every aspect of a day, and they still try
To eat into the insects infested in the lesson, lunch, tea break and sleep.
Muggy, grey clouded aura.
Smiling politely, nodding silently,
Recoiling towards a blissful clam,
Sleep and darkness, away from the dazzling aches of the day.
Self-infliction of self reveals a true identity: a true picture?
Or a matisse inspired manipulation, accentuating fault and shadowing praise,
Cross-hatching your peceived confidence.