Firsts

I love firsts.
First days.
First experiences.
First moments that lead to a whole array of different firsts.

Firsts have a different effect on the soul to any other occasion.

I don’t need to explain the sensation
That a first causes
In the pit of your stomach,

Because you’re probably thinking about a first right now.

And your belly is just starting to tingle
As you recall that first kiss.

And your palms are just starting to sweat,
As you realise you have another first waiting for you tomorrow.

I love firsts.

Jeff

To most people that passed the bench,
on the corner of Sation Road,
Jeff was a nobody.

Battered, broken,
Jeff should've been picked up and thrown in the trash,
Along with the cider can by his feet.

The regular passer by didn't get to know Jeff.
They rushed along, averting their eyes from the stain on society.

They were missing out.

If any one of those hurrying by had stopped and talked to Jeff
Their hearts and their minds would have been opened to the real beauty in this world.

For despite being trodden on,
swept under the carpet,
Jeff had a joy for life that a suit and a briefcase simply didn't know.

Jeff was happy down there with Rover.
They accepted their place,
And took life at their own pace.

The angry people and their dirty looks didn't matter,
Jeff wouldn't have switched places with any of them.

The Landlord

This is the last poem that she’ll write.


By the end of these verses
She’ll have been evicted
Ejected
Cast out of her home.

The place that she turned to for refuge,
Has turned itself upon her.
The place that turned to her for refuge,
Has found comfort in another’s arms.

The house that saw tears,
Saw joy,
Saw her grow into something incredible,
Will see no more.

The landlord tore himself apart,
Wrestling over his dilemma.
The new tenants would bring what he had been searching for,
The new tenants would bring happiness,
The new tenants would bring the future into his home.

So he sent her on her way.

She packed her bags,
Gathered her things,
And disappeared over the horizon.

Apologies

I was meant to be writing an awful lot more here, but it's been a hectic couple of months. I'm able to slow it down over the summer, so hopefully a lot more material will be up in the near future.


As an unrelated heads up, Noah and the Whale have got a new album out, and the first track is available as a free download from http://www.noahandthewhale.com/ . If you can, get it, you won't be dissapointed.

Greedy Little Bugger

Ask any adult in the street to share what they’re eating.
They’ll look at you like you’ve got rabies.

They won’t even reply.
They just walk straight by you.
But you can tell what they’re thinking
By the back of their head.

“What’s wrong with that boy?” they’ll ask themselves.
Is he homeless?
Did his mother die of AIDS?
No,
I bet he’s just a greedy little bugger.

And they walk off content
That they weren’t one of the morons to be bent over
And happy slapped
By Britain’s declining culture.

They’ll even tell their friends over the garden fence of their bravery.
“You’ll never guess what happened to me today Julie!
This little chav tried to steal my crunchy granola bar!
What is the world coming to?”

Never mind that it was a KitKat Chunky.
Julie doesn’t need to know that Weight Watchers isn’t working.


Not everyone reacts the same way.

I walked past a woman in Tesco yesterday,
Her whole being torn,
Between the money in her purse,
And how Free Range the Organic chicken really was.

I smiled at the podgy two year old,
Sat in his mother’s trolley,
Sucking on a Milkybar.

Instinctively,
He reached out,
Offering me a bite of his chocolate.

I declined the offer.
I didn’t want to take candy from a baby.

He carried on sucking,
Content.

His mother bought the cheaper chicken.

How not to waste an hour.

Sometimes you work at a poem for days, and even then it isn't finished. This one took approximately 3 and a half minutes. Let me know what you think.



Sometimes there’s a breeze
On a May afternoon.

Often there’s a gale.
Busy, self important.
Chicago town.

Some winds barely register,
Touching nothing.
Affecting no one.

The monsoon gusts hit everyone.
They lack affect.
They’re gone by dinner.

But sometimes,
The wind hits your washing line.
You can scramble all you like,
It’s too late.
From Calvin to Primark,
Pants litter the sky.

And then you buy a replacement pair
That land in your neighbour’s garden.

That wind is different.
You won’t hang your boxers out to dry anymore.