This was inspired by a friend who’s moving home. As someone who was transient for a few years, I can empathise. Starting life in a new place can be daunting, but often we’re moving away from something else, where the wallpaper’s peeling. Home is the cloakroom for hearts…
For some of my more recent poems, when I’ve posted them as images (better for Instagram) I’ve positioned the text so that the poem can be read either monologue (down) or as though in harmony (across). I wonder if this is working?
This week I reach the age which Douglas did before he left the planet, like so many others as I’ve grown old and they didn’t. This is for my friends who left school before me. On growing old (and lonelier) as a pot-smoking private poet…
PoemSearcher.com (background image)
I believe we’re not truly gone until we’re forgotten, and that old friends and family still walk among us, roused from their sleep when we think of them.
I got a haircut tonight, at Stand By My Hair, a butchery joint run by a chef-barber friend of mine from my kitchen. My Barnet unfair goes well with my new glasses and a cravat I fashioned from a bandanna to make me feel like a writer again.
And a poet. I haven’t forgotten myself. Who’s afraid of Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings?
PROSE FROM THE PENCIL CASE
INK IN THE SKIN
Gas Station Horror
If you can’t write your dreams, remember to live them. Then maybe someone can write them for you.
We’re only gone when we’re forgotten, but when we remember, sometimes they visit us. They still walk among us. You just have to keep your eyes open to notice them.
…and Mr Sandman leaves hailstones
I’ve called this ‘What’s the matter with us?’