It has been a month since I last posted on here. Yes, you’re thinking, “Thank you Martyn for stating the obvious.” Well, today I was trying to rationalise why I have not been able to mould any new pieces. The answer: time. Looking back over my earlier pieces, I thought over this particular piece and my inspiration came flooding back. Why should time be allowed to stop us from anything? Why should we just happily ponder over how little time there is? Get up and do something about it. So I have.

Time is leaving us back at the starting blocks, just like that kid we all knew; the one who was never really great at anything, but tried so hard to just be something for a day, someone for a second.

How often do chances come our way: the ones we know will make or break us; define our recent history and shape something so fundamental, like your confidence to even walk out the front door, or pick up your pen and scrawl the words you cannot say.

Sometimes you know, that feeling won’t ever leave you. A fundamental feeling to live in everyone’s shadow; the background in your favourite picture. Often, it can be rooted in the most mundane feelings of happiness, but why? Happiness in silence; contentment in isolation.

That sinking feeling.



My head falls back onto the soft cloud:
I am awake.
The morning sunlight breaks through my window,
Stirring my sleeping eyes into consciousness.
The blissful silence is broken by the sting of the alarm bell.
I fade through the 14 aching steps to find a vessel for my Frosties.
Tea fills my blood with enough energy to stand and I make broken movements back up the stairs.
Dressing takes its regimented form: Suit. Tie. Shoes. Door.
The journey is as it is: a winding meander of the breaking morn. Clio steps up to third before the work door descends.
The day passess as the day always does: endless rambles of fascinating gambles.
Pupil trials and each with a smile break the monotony of any day.
The hum of my daily excursions is now noticeable as I retire to my chamber at evening light.
My pen finds its way to the vandalised tree, scraping the questions of progress and praise.
Night falls as every other: blurred optical zooms in eyes bruised.
My head falls back onto the soft cloud.
Tomorrow? Day, again.

For You

I was challenged to write a poem for someone who claimed to have never read or heard a poem that he enjoyed. This is the result.

So, you don’t like poems?
They don’t grab your attention?
You don’t appreciate the subtlety of an enjambment
Or the frailty of a perfectly sequenced iambic pentameter?
You don’t autonomously tap along with a crescendo rhythm
Or laugh heartily at a whimsical limerick?
Well, this one is for you:

There was a young man I know,
Who thought he’d give poems a go.
Well I’ll tell you straight,
You won’t get a date,
Until you rhyme like a poetical great.

Are you listening yet, yes?
Have I grasped your attention with this?
Help it in the palm of my hand like a God?
Abused it like a spotty geek abuses COD?
Twisted it round my freckled pinky
With my wonderful word play and whimsy?
Well, here’s the clincher;

Now I know that you said you don’t feel
That this poetry lark is for real,
So here is a ditty,
To make you feel pretty,
Hang on. That’s a bit too far; sorry sweetie.

So that’s it, the poem to grab your attention;
Challenge accepted, extended and delivered.
The wager is a dairy delight:
If you can honestly say that this ode
Did not float your boat,
Then revel in its chocolaty textures.
However, if you were in the least bit moved,
By the way I used the spoken word
Then the chocolate is mine,
To have and to hold, in sickness and in health,
Until my face devours it.

In Loving Memory of VK Blue

Here lieth the body of a lost generation,
Shrouded in weeds and Building Merchants refuse, to accompany the lilies;
A stark contrast from the beauty of Albert’s days.

Boxes and chambers of lost souls,
Stood upon by our lost youths,
Telling tales of ASBOs and thrust,
Remembering those lost to the next plastic lust.
Age old tombs for fathers four times removed,
Now pathways to the gluttonous binge.

So here’s to the VK Blue,
For it’s destruction of the new.
Gone is the respect for loved ones lost,
And theirs is the next grave, dug out in destroyed liver.

In loving memory of a gentleman’s age,
In the name of the Archers, the Rum and the unholy spirits.
Ashes to ashes, fags and dust,
We’ll remember you still,
Our men.


Keyboard Warrior

Hatred behind a mask:
This is what the social world has descended to.
A keyboard warrior generation;
Trolling the vast spaces of the web to pick and scratch
Preying on the morality of someone else’s unfortunate reality.
Behind their pixel screen they wax lyrical on the topical
(Forgive the irony screaming from this page).
They believe in faceless crime,
No karma for harm caused.
They fight with ‘wrds ov h8’,
Forging illiterate empty threats.
They hail the corruption of free speech,
Illiciting pain from 140 characters.

But for once, I hope, they take a breath and pause,
For the suffering their words can cause,
Ends here, with a note to say:
Long live the responsible speaker,
Using voice to change the world, for the better.
Resonate your typing loud, to drown out the trolls of the underworld.
Fixate your thoughts on the construction of positivity,
To save the destruction of our social reality.

Palpable Hum

There is an incessant rumble here,
This empty room of crisp wall covering and fading flooring.
Here, the rumble is an echo of fading noises, lost in the passage of two short weeks,
Now that my hoard are free from their education shackles.
I stand between my insipid blue wooden tops, eye catching the shelf of faceless books,
Open on a page of vivid expression: pupil crying for attention.
Explicit imagination, tainted with fragile and sickening reality.
Ears and eyes open to the cry of a lost and tortured soul,
One that commits me to fear for her and where her fear lies.
Frantic retrospect tells me I heard her voice above the hum,
Hoping beyond hope a spoken word or scribbled utterance came to the rescue.
How would this play out under the gaze of another?
Would her silent cry be heard above the rumble?
Do we lose the face behind the name when trying to acclaim and shame?
Am I really that good at what I claim?

All of the above sting my ears as the palpable hum rises again from each tattered page,
Fragile sounds striving to be acknowledged above the rumble of her silent cry.

The bonnie Scotsman (at rest)

This is a difficult piece to post. I love him, and he will hear this.

On a day of toil, remember a bonnie soul, clutching to life, straining to survive, but now at peace, restful in his sleep.

The bonnie Scotsman wanders across his lands with the wind in his hair and haggis in his heart. Shame our Scotsman lacks the follicles to stand in a fresh wind and sweep the flowing locks from his eyes, except for that one time the cousins and I brylcreemed a mo hawk on that random strip that protruded from the egg shell.

The bonnie Scotsman bowls the greatest players off the green, luscious grass of the county parks, even though he never had the pleasure of pitting his skill against the Kerr duo. Even in the practise arena we went soft on him, honestly. I am sure he was inspired by the kitty; the chance for petty cash to buy the Scottish amenities: the shortbreads, the kilts and such.

The bonnie Scotsman is strong, in every thing; in every aspect, every minuscule detail and every fibre of his being. The wall was built to separate and divide, but this Scotsman scaled its broken rocks and wandered triumphantly to these, our shores, the land he calls home, with us, his loved ones.

The bonnie Scotsman is now a shell, a broken image of his former self. His aesthetic lies though. Underneath his fragile bones is a heart of fire and courage to fight. His days now stolen by torturous cells, but presently straining to taste another one, continuing to fight and scrap, for his precious life continues, with us, his loved ones.

The bonnie Scotsman is at peace, resting in the hearts of everyone who was lucky enough to have known him. Sleep well sir.