Drunk

I never understood the joy of being drunk,

until I was sat on the kitchen floor of my student flat,

head bruised,

from misjudging how far to lean back,

and how quick

a kitchen counter will jump out.

Sister Dearest

We do not hold hands.

 

These days,

Hugging is a concept you reserve

For first days home from uni

And the occasions

Where you simply wish to weird me out.

 

It is amusing,

That despite having three years on you,

I must reach up

And stand on my toes,

To level my head with yours.

 

My bigger, little sister.

 

Those days where we were called twins

Are long gone.

Much to the relief of us both,

And now we are compared more to our parents,

How I have taken Dad’s eyes,

And you are a Swinnerton without doubt.

 

These days,

Hugging is a concept that your reserve from me.

 

But the facts of the matters remain.

When you claim dominion over this world

And all possible others-

 

I’ll still get to annoy you without fear of losing my head.

Pandering To My Dislike Of You

Punching you in the throat is,

perhaps,

predominate in,

pushing away all those other thoughts that

play at high speed acrobatics in my head, and

pre-determine the welcome you will receive

post-opening your mouth.

 

 

This is Day Three for NaPoWrimo, and I decided that I was going to write a fixed form poem and that I was going to write a Pleiades.

My Grandfather

‘One of the old men fearing no man’ Thomas Yarnton of Tarlton by John Drinkwater


My Grandfather no longer ages.

In photos from family gatherings he stands

taller

than the rest of us

our constant invariable.

Despite broken ribs,

eleven,

smashed sternum,

destroyed spleen,

punctured lung,

fracture wrist,

cardiac arrest

not once but twice!

Despite the bull’s best efforts,

our urges to lessen the workload,

relax,

take time,

watch the races and leave the farming-

An old farmer never retires.

He doubles the size of the vegetable patch,

rebuilds fences,

two new stables,

buys a flock of ewes

(in lamb)

(and claims they’ll lamb themselves…

we all know they will not lamb themselves.)

To him, technology was foreign,

but,

to prove the family wrong

he bought a laptop.

And taught himself to use it in six months.

(Though email still proves elusive

And the last text he sent me

was

blank.

Still.

My Grandfather is the same

as the man in my memories,

And even at my most feminist

I did not mind to be princess,

So long as it was my Grandfather’s princess.

My Grandfather is one of those old men fearing no man,

who does not age in photos,

and makes me brave,

when I remember

that his stubbornness

runs just as strongly through me.

At Sea

I will stand at the edge of the docks,

With neon green hair

And a fist-full of jokes,

So that my features are always alight with laughter.

I will pass hand over hand,

Strain my shoulders

And throw my back into pulling

you

to me.

Do not compare me to a summer’s day,

Or the fragility of spring blossom,

I will not wither if you snatch me from my roots

I can set down new ones…

I can wrap myself as ivy strands,

Plug the cracks in you

And hide each flaw

So they are mine alone to admire.

I will stand at the edge of the docks,

With neon green hair

And a fist-full of jokes,

So that my features are always alight with laughter.

Hold out my fingers for you to grip,

And not complain

When my arms are filled with souvenirs

To which each will be labeled a memory

That is mine to hear

But never truly know.