family, grandad, grandparents, love, poetry, rhyme

The House that Grandad Built. 

You are everywhere, 

But nowhere in sight.

Teak wood glory,

A nod to your trade.

I had never noticed,

The gleam of the gold mirror’s frame

On your living room wall,

Yet now it’s vintage presence

Has pride of place in mine.

And what of the music

That you spun her around to

At just 16 years of age?

I will dance all the same

Underneath our slanted ceilings

As he takes my hand.

All four of the rooms

Contain a token of you,

Of memories before my time

That your love can no longer

Quite remember to recall.

Each day I sit upon your chair

But no longer on your knee,

I sit beside a new man,

With whom you would be pleased.

Your home and your history

That you had to leave behind,

Now sit upon the table tops

And fill the walls of mine.

 

©livingthroughlines 2017.

 

creative writing, love, poetry, romance, Uncategorized

Home with you. 

Flat pack furniture and

Wonky screws. 

Nan’s coffee table,

Tea and biscuit jar too.

Cutlery from across the world; 

Saucepans never used; 

Drawers which don’t align; and 

A cupboard too small for my shoes. 

Old sash windows 

Only single glazed.

But also, the velux 

Impressing us for days.

Sloping roof and walls 

No heads have gone unscathed;

A view over Victorian terraces and

Street lamps which barely glow. 

Chilly in the morning and 

Warm by the spring eve,

The wind sneaks into the kitchen 

But the rain on the roof soothes.

A fridge that doesn’t work 

And bathroom lights that blew;

Grandad’s needle-less record player 

Will soon be looking new. 

Bags remain unpacked and

There’s plenty left to do;

To make these four walls a home,

But I’m so glad I’ll do it with you. 

 

livingthroughlines 2017.

creative writing, love, poetry, rhyme, romance, Uncategorized

Bedroom ‘Love’.

We tried so hard for feelings

That were more than simple lust,

Ran our fingers through the sheets

In a hunt for hope and trust.

 

But a life cannot be built

On tangles in the dark,

When come the morning sunrise,

Clouds of reality dull its spark.

 

Skin, warm against the bed sheets,

But cold to your touch;

Our fingertips feel everything,

But the heart feels nothing much.

 

livingthroughlines 2016.

creative writing, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Dear, Mum.

This was a poem I wrote for my mum last year for Mother’s Day when I was still away at University in my final year. I think this was truly the first occasion that I sat down and really took the time to appreciate everything I’d taken for granted throughout my childhood and teenage years. 


There are endless thank yous

For the last twenty one years;

For teaching me to grow;

Calming me during tears.

 

You have always been a rock –

Remaining strong when I break,

And yet a warming comfort

When I’ve had all I can take.

 

My teacher and my carer;

My security and my friend;

You were everything you had to be

With no means to an end.

 

I treasure your opinion

Beyond any single other.

No one’s words have impact

The way you can as my mother.

 

Forget the times I moaned

About the places you would take me,

I was too young to realise

How much of it would make me.

 

Forever, I am grateful

For all the things I’ve seen –

The experiences, the memories,

The life that’s already been.

 

The freedom, yet support

The advice without dictating;

You struck a perfect balance,

Giving, yet no taking.

 

You have always supported me

And taught me that I ‘can’,

It’s all of your qualities

That have made me who I am.

 

No one has ever taught you

How to be the mum you are,

You’ve managed it all by yourself

And that’s the amazing part.

 

If I amount to anything,

It would be to be like you –

To craft such perfect motherhood

Would be an incredible thing to do.

 

So for all the times I fought

Against what you had to say,

Please know now that I’m thankful

For your input every day.

 

You always told me ‘one day’

When I had eventually grew,

That I’d be grateful for your effort

And I’d love you for it too.

 

Now, at twenty-one years old

That is absolutely true;

I can never really repay you

For all you’ve done and you still do.

 

My love is unconditional,

Infinite and with no end.

I’ll be there for you,

As you have been for me

 

Forever, my best friend.

creative writing, poetry, prose

A ‘Chance’ Encounter.

You were but a face in the crowd
That I may have once seen;
Like a distant, dancing cloud
Slowly lost in the wind.

This world that we’re living in,
That is so brilliantly small;
The roots of the tree
Somehow connecting us all.

Like a pebble lost out at sea,
You slowly drifted back to me.
Everything has a way
Of falling into place.

You don’t believe in fate
And I doubt you ever will,
But there’s more than chance
On which our love was built.

A man amongst the rest,
I had forgot I’d ever seen,
Now I sit writing poems
About the other half of me.

 

livingthroughlines 2016.

poetry, rhyme

A poem to all young girls.

Dearest little girl,

Accept my sincerest apology

For all the things that older you

Will think you should believe.

 

Small and petite breasts

Will not damage just how much you succeed

But even still you’ll shed a tear

Based on Instagram feeds.

 

Twenty-two years old,

And you still dislike everything you see.

Your size 10 perfect hips and waist;

Too big for Fashion Week.

 

Dearest little girl,

This world really isn’t quite how it seems.

Your self-image should not be judged

From electronic screens.