Writing

Seeds Of Ideas


The piece below was written for a competition ran by the National Literacy Trust last year to promote poetry in schools. Sadly I didn’t make the shortlist but I’m happy with the poem and hope some of you like it.

Seeds of Ideas

The line on the page is a seed laid in the soil,
As my eyes rake over the words,
I water the furrowed earth
With thoughts and inspiration,
The seed, planted in compost of grammar,
Tenderly tended with metaphor and simile,
Germinates; sending forth shoots,
Leading to new buds,
Images in my mind flower as words, music, rhythm,
And lines on a page,
Waiting to blow on the breeze and be planted again.

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Writing

Hill Running


It takes a special kind of masochist,
To want to run up a hill,
Walking up can be bad enough.
To see the steep path to the summit
And think ‘Yes, I want to run up that’

We could run on woodland trail,
Or plod round the urban street,
But better to float over the tops in trainers,
With the world spread out below,
Picking over rocks holding our wings out wide

Ahh, but to get to the summit is a relentless slog,
We kid ourselves we run,
Spirited walk might be more apt,
Lift and push, lift and push,
One leg after the other in short, short steps

When the going is too steep,
Or the legs are out of gas,
The arms lend a hand and push
Down on the thighs, left, right, left, right
The important thing is to keep going up

Often the climb is broken by flat,
Or less steep, sections.
Releasing the runner to a canter,
Free of the punishing climb,
For now, for it must return

It’s return is often worse than before,
We spent too much on the easy bits,
Saving little for the final push towards the sky.
We arrive on the summit a broken shell,
Sweating, panting, pretending we ran to the top

We lay there and collect our thoughts,
Taking a moment to refuel body and mind,
Admiring the landscape painted just for us.
The same summit we’ve run before,
Different each day, every time

Finally we take off,
Racing along the top and blasting downhill,
On the very edge of control
We slip, slide and leap
Avoiding rocks, scree, bog and mud

Down, so often as hard as up,
Constantly braking to stay
On the limit of control,
Knees and thighs screaming,
Mad grin ever widening

A final sprint to the car if legs can cope,
Then stop, stretch and head for home,
Or a well earned pint to aid recovery,
Now the soul is fueled with the joy of hills,
And we are lighter for the rest of the day

Writing

One Hand Clapping


One Hand Clapping

Cla-!
Is that the sound of one hand clapping?
Or without the hit is it more like
Phoof, Woosh or Flumf?
And if fifty-six MPs should clap
In an empty commons,
Should we be angry
At this terrible breach of decorum,
Or the empty benches around them?