Archive for loss poems

In The House Of Newspapers

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on May 9, 2012 by dc

In the house of newspapers
The sun curls its corners
And the draughts tickle
Yellow and jaded,

Yesterday’s headlines
And a tea stained blonde
Smiling towards sadness
And resting in time,

The twist of sly hindsight,
The hushed laughter of vengeance
And the untouched windowsills
Cracked in the heat.

Where once strode the pageant
Of black and white snapshots
There now sits abandon,
All wistful and saddened,

A coffee mug rotting,
A floor missing tiles,
The jubilant once was
Of now then goodbyes.

Last Call

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on April 11, 2012 by dc

A cracked old breath,
A gentle phlegmy crackle,
Before the soft, warm words
Uttered like full stops,
Pop and then float away.

Handfuls of faces remembered,
Wet eyes through tissues,
Circling and drifting,
The last beautiful slideshow
Flickering like
A hundred lonely hands
Passing through light

Before they
Tickle the shadows
And fade out.

The Whispers Of Rain

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on April 6, 2012 by dc

That distant hollow hums
Once more and heartbeats
Line the stomachs
Of the broken hearted,

A love departed
Deep into the park,

The echo of singing children,
The tranquilised hush of cars
And the nagging worries
Braying like donkeys,
Shuddering the brains

Of the soon to be lonely
Autumnal plains,

There’s a wind gently blowing
And the whispers of rain,



Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on March 29, 2012 by dc

I sing off-kilter love songs
To a photo I now call your smile,

I fill the bin with lyrics
And fritter longing
Like spitting bacon
Under a grill,

Gently dramatic,

Feeling like the wars of the sinister
Have curdled the innocent,

But I’m just a fly,

A buzz in the corner of a room
Pretending to be part of a picture,

Looking down
At a past happy,

Waiting for windows
To open.

The Beanbag

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on March 25, 2012 by dc

You chose the beanbag,
The comforting sink
Of contentment
And hush,

Just the odd crunch
Of shifting beans,
And the sigh of your mind
As it wanders
And settles

On a memory,

The white wine
In his garden,
The warmth
Of his arms,
And the trip
Of his lips,

Drips of sweet honey.

Your brain plays tricks,

There’s a hunk of bread
In your hands,
A dullard by your side,
And the sweet British quiver
Of a hidden mistake,

Lost in the floorboards,

As you shift,

Out of time.

The Jeans

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 23, 2012 by dc

That shade of denim,
Those belt loops,
That stitching,
That cut.

I watched him cry
As he stared at the jeans,

We are nothing
Till we’re worn.

A Sadness Resigned

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 20, 2009 by dc

I saw your eyes whispering
Sad-hearted lullabies,
Their heavy lids fluttering
A makeshift release,

You lay in bed
Like a soft, settled sand dune,
Pretending to sleep,
A sadness resigned,

There was nothing
I could do,
The summer had fallen
Into bleak winter dreams,

I took
A long, cold
Look at myself,
I was begging.

At the Wake

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 20, 2009 by dc

I opened my heart
To a young nurse from Nice
As I topped up her drinks
And sank into her eyes,

They grieved
Like termites on trunks
As a forest fire spreads
And the heat turns to fear.

The barmaid who served me
Had only one arm
But she was quicker than most,

The tears that I shed
Were brought on by you
And the way you broke down,

These were sweet drunken moments
On a woe led occasion
As I laughed like a gutter
And sweated for jokes,

You were brilliant
And somewhere he knew that.

There Are Ghosts Here Now

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 4, 2009 by dc

There are ghosts here now,
The sounds of phantom engines
Drawing up outside my home,
The smell of your skin on my linen,
Your reflection in the clock face,
Your love in all my tears.

Time was I knew what instinct meant,
Counting new birds in the sky
And resting on predictions
Of when I’d next see your smile,

But there are ghosts here now,
A hollow born from sorrow,
An amplified silence on weekends,
Something new in the wastes of this city,
The punches of inevitable endings,
Your outline all blurred in the distance.

Turning Keys

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on May 19, 2009 by dc

In the love we built from mirrors
All I ever saw was me,
Apparitions made from greed,
Stolen moments in reflections,

And I’m sorry that my selfish ways
Are now just dead birds in a forest,
Burnt out husks in war torn towns,
A foreign way to cry forever,

I’m sorry I was made of card
And that I folded easily,
I guess all those times I sung of love
I was merely turning keys.