Poetry, Uncategorized

PAUSE

sunset pause

Are you feeling sad inside

Like nothing’s going right?

And ‘though you’ve tried so many things

You cannot see the light?

Just stop.

And breathe.

And smile.

 

Sometimes you feel so out of reach,

Like a needle in a stack,

One grain of sand upon the beach,

A pebble in a crack.

Just stop.

And breathe.

And smile.

 

Open up your tired eyes,

You’ll see your star’s still shining,

And maybe then you’ll realise

You have your silver lining.

Just stop.

And breathe.

And smile.

 

Serendipity will pick you up,

Like a penny off the ground.

While now it’s feeling all fucked-up,

Your luck will turn around.

Just stop.

And breathe.

And smile.

 

You’ll find the wave that rocks your boat,

The wind that blows your tree,

The salty brine that makes you float,

The love that sets you free.

Just stop.

And breathe.

And smile.

 

Nobody can steal your heart

If it’s safely locked away,

You’ll only tear yourself apart

If you tell the pain to stay.

Just stop.

And breathe.

And smile.

 

New gifts wash in with every tide

To fill that aching hole

Live the journey, enjoy the ride

And open up your soul.

Just stop.

And breathe.

And smile.

 

Let your beating heart be stilled,

You mustn’t go too fast,

Precious things take long to build

If they’re going to last . . . . .

So, stop and breathe and smile

And make it all worthwhile.

 

 

 

 

 

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Poetry, Uncategorized

MEMORIES OF AMSTERDAM

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Winds blow in from the Zuider Zee

Showering leaves from the golden tree,

As we sat on the stoep of your canal-side house

(Around the corner from the Rembrandthuis),

Sipping our koffie as bikes pedalled past,

Warming our hands on the steaming glass.

 

 

The sweet, familiar smell of weed

Wafted along on the autumn breeze

Past towering façades with stepping gables,

Taking our time at coffee shop tables,

Exploring this city of carnal pleasures,

Winding canals & artists’ treasures.

 

 

Those redolent visions live just in my head,

The waterways speak to me instead

Of furtive infidelity:

These streets hold no memories of you & me.

The windmills and bridges, the cobblestone view

Now spoiled by cuckolded thoughts of you.

 

 

Is she sitting upon your stoep

Sipping her koffie?  Am I the dupe?

What small secrets do you share

In the gabled house with the winding stair

Beneath the tree with the golden leaves

Blown by winds from the Zuider Zee?

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Poetry, Uncategorized

HOW HOT YOU GOT

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Our dearest, darling Emmsy-tot

Who was that silly clumsy clot

Who spilled the scalding supper pot?

Your limbs were burned and got too hot

As beastly flames they upped and hopped

Upon your lovely legs and bot,

Over arms and toes they got,

It must have really hurt a lot!

Sat upon your Gertrude’s cot,

All bare-naked, ‘sans coulottes’

And slowly getting bottom-rot.

Through smeary tears and dripping snot,

Theatre, dressings, ouchy what-not,

You’ll feel it’s all a heap of rot,

But in time the pain will be forgot –

We’re awed at all the strength you’ve got.

For you we’ve got a real soft-spot

And think of you a mighty lot.

Despite the current grizzly-grot

You burns will matter not a jot

When you’re the brand-new Queen of Swat,

A cute & cured Nairobi sex-pot,

Cruising in a swanky soft-top,

Or lounging on a rich man’s yacht

Having won the Sweepstake Jackpot

And grooving to a funky-foxtrot.

I would send blooms and wine, the lot

A choccie cake and tea in a pot,

But dipsy ditties are all I’ve got –

So I’m sending you ALL the love we’ve got,

Knowing you’ll soon come out TOP!

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Poetry, Uncategorized

MY FRIDAY NIGHT

my friday night

7pm:

Although I look old and past it, right,

I still look forward to Friday night,

and trying to recreate the magic

(at my age, some would say it’s tragic)

of when a boy would try to kiss me,

left me feeling like a princess, see?

 

In my time I been called a slag,

my skirts are short, I dance round my bag,

inside there’s a couple of Durex Play

(best be prepared, if I get my way!),

my purse with this week’s benefit,

a Smirnoff mini, just for the hellavit,

 

and half a pack of Marlboro lights.

My legs are bare, I don’t need tights,

dimpled thighs will look OK

under a layer of San-Tro-Pay.

Badly bleached and sort-of grey

Hair held firm with cans of spray.

 

To my Nan I made an oath,

to show some leg or tit, not both,

Nor to date with more than one gusset,

remember my brains are my finest asset,

and classy girls, not too chav,

always ask for French Cab Sav.

 

Brains are good, but I’m afraid,

they don’t help you to get laid.

Made-up to trade-up –

Chucked-up then fucked-up –

this attention-seeking whore

will strut her stuff about the floor

 

11.30pm:

Off comes the nylon lon-jer-ray,

discarded, ripped, it’s had its day –

legs akimbo, what a sight,

the sickly orange urban light

makes her thinning hair seem blonder.

On the back seat of his Honda

 

the grunting of the spotty lad

makes her feel a little sad.

Granny wouldn’t like her style –

to be wanted for a while –

it’s not like asking for a lot –

anyway, it’s all I’ve got.

 

Later on, I’ll feel alright.

My boozy, floozy Friday night.

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Poetry, Uncategorized

MAMA’S DREAMLAND

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She loves those hills of rolling green,

And the barren parched-grey scrub:

That rust-red earth makes her dream,

Along a simple clichéd theme,

Of people dancing hand in hand

Across her ancient, sun-drenched land.

The golden beaches fringed with palms

Where people sway with open arms

To the rhythm of the sea

From today until eternity.

Her snowy peaks in cobalt skies

Will echo sounds of happy cries,

Of children dancing, always free,

Free from tribal tyranny.

Whirling, twirling, love as one,

Smiles beneath the yellow sun,

Or laughing in the rain,

And setting free the pain.

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Poetry, Uncategorized

ANOTHER CHEESY CHRISTMAS SONG . . . .

mistletoe

 

The fir-tree gleams with coloured lights

Putting on its Christmas show,

Sparkling eyes on snowy nights

Underneath the mistletoe.

 

The fire’s dancing in the grate

And we can too, just make it slow,

Will you be my Advent date

Underneath the mistletoe?

 

It may be chilly, I don’t mind,

When we run through fields of snow,

Coz later we’ll be intertwined

Underneath the mistletoe.

 

While the world is celebrating

We’ll be kissing, hearts-a-glow,

To the music, hips gyrating

Underneath the mistletoe

 

Snuggled here when midnight chimes,

We’ll sway in gentle concerto,

Grinning at the happy times

Underneath the mistletoe.

 

o-er, hang on a minute . . .

All that wine and Christmas drink

Has left me feeling faint and so

Into your arms I’ll gently sink

Underneath the mistletoe.

 

I feel myself begin to sway

Clasp me tight & hold me . . . whoa,

I think my legs will soon give way

Underneath the mistletoe.

 

Christmas time is such a laugh

But my head is reeling to and fro

And, oh my God, I’m going to barf

Underneath the mistletoe!

merry christmas

© Alex Barton 2012

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Imagine a future mapped by throw of dice.
Impending crossroads: which way should she choose?
No lesser evil, neither option nice.
So much to gain, but scared of what’s to lose.

Just hesitate and through the cracks she’ll fall,
For in this limbo lies a damaged soul;
And quixotic thoughts achieve no end at all,
But hurtful indecision takes its toll.

Ricochet from head to heart the conflict goes,
Two scales locked in balance battle so
That parity cancels out its foe.
The weights are placed: which way will they go?

With augury’s sixth sense and conscience clear,
The Canaan she is seeking will appear.

Poetry, Uncategorized

CHOICES

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