Poem, revised draft

I had to write this poem again.
I left the first draft on the train
and now it doesn’t look the same.

The original was a paean to Love,
to Truth, to Beauty. It soared above
the everyday and all that stuff.

It would have healed estranged lovers’ rifts,
stilled the sands on which time shifts
and stopped the world before it drifts

further into quagmired crisis,
ended famine, toppled ISIS.
Employed ingenious literary devices.

I tried my hardest to recall
its words and rhymes, the rise and fall
of the carefully cadenced crawl

through the English language.
But it caused me pain and anguish
for there was little I could salvage.

It certainly didn’t end with a line like this.

Sing to me your songs of sweet, sweet love

Sing to me your songs of sweet, sweet love,
and set your music afloat on the breeze.
Or write me a sonnet straight from the heart
and carve your words upon on an oak tree.

Or proclaim to me a constitution of love
and make your rules and principles clear.
Or if you don’t have time to write such a thing,
then whisper soft, hushed words in my ear.

Or scrawl something down on a post-it note
so you don’t need to think too hard.
Or if you’ve got a spare postage stamp,
you could always send a postcard.

Or maybe leave a message with my mum
(07823 666 403)
as you’ve not been in touch for nearly six years
and I’m worried you might be avoiding me.

An Extra Hour

There is plenty
we can do
in an extra hour.

We could play
Strip Jenga; you can
topple my tower.

We could sprinkle
our bodies
with self-raising flour

(if it’s too claggy
it’ll wash off
in the shower)

or pretend
you’re a cover drive
and I’m David Gower.

But let’s first
give your fan oven
a much-needed scour.


(with Autocorrect turned on)

O what Brave New Worm is this
That holes you, my sweet darting love?
I see you in the stairs that twinkle
In the heavy above.

Your light shins down upon me
and sets my heart on fir.
You stir up my emoticons
And fill me with dessert.

I gazebo upon your lovely Facebook.
Your rainy nose, sweet, unmissable,
The blue-greed eyes like limpet pools,
And your petty mouse, juicy and kissable.

Come with me, Angle of my Dreams,
Hold my ham and journalist into the night
And together lettuce explore the worm,
Over the horizontal and out of sigh.