Practice Poetry

Burst into song

at the break of a bud

from its stronghold.

 

Love it long

in the evening

when the crispness has gone

 

And when petals fold

and fall away

never, never mourn the day.

 

It is a time for giving.

 

© Copyright Laurence Shelley (Do not distribute without authors permission)

I quietly long for a day I could forget to take the meds

I could let the world stop turning and just remain inside my head

No meeting expectations, or forced polite small talk

No slightly faster heartbeat, No hollow smiling while I walk

 

I could take one day to skip the joust between the ‘do or not’

not part of some elaborate plan, I simply just, forgot

 

With no danger or reliance, the restful freedom I’d unlock

I could simply let the silence stay for one turning of the clock

The next day I’d do what I should, the best thing for my health

But just one day I really wish they could remain upon the shelf

 

© Do not distribute without authors permission

Last night down here

On Ghost Town Street

A mile or so from Friary House

I heard the sound

Of sixty seven million people clapping

out on the cobbled lane,

moments after I’d finished writing

on my third day of solitude.

 

Intrigued, I grabbed my notebook and pen

and leaving the sanctuary of the armchair

moved towards the window.

Leaning out over the kitchen sink

I saw neighbours clapping in backyards

to a song I couldn’t hear.

 

Then I heard a whispering on the grapevine

then my shadow quietly hummed

the nightingale’s song in my ear

and we joined in the applause,

clapping for the doctors and the nurses

clapping all the way to 1948

clapping on the doorsteps

of Tredegar and Ebbw Vale

clapping in Derriford and Freedom Fields

clapping for the man who for me

is the grandfather I never had

the grandfather who gave

my mother a place to sleep

a place to give birth

to three children,

two girls and a boy

one in March

one in November

one on Christmas Day.

 

© Copyright Kenny Knight (Do not distribute without authors permission) 

I’m an Expert by Experience which a funny way to say

“We still think that you’re crazy, but in a useful way”

Their questions can be hurtful, and often poorly said

It’s usually just spun ways to say ‘translate your quirky head’

 

I don’t mean to sound dubious or even cynical

It’s just that err of bluntness when your used to clinical

In truth it’s hard to explain to those who couldn’t understand,

Even when those people just want to help and hold your hand.

 

“You’re an Expert by Experience, you must tell us what you think,

Help your people speak their truth!” like I’m some kind of shrink?

When I was asked, I poured with rage, both rational and not.

I was stuck in the spiral of the most negative of thought.

 

“You need me to help translate, what you should have learned in school?

That some think in a different way and your judgements can be cruel.

So my useful crazy put to work to make you workload less

And even when I begged for help and was told I was a mess”

 

I’m an expert by frustration at a system that is flawed

That made me feel imposter, uncanny valley, and a fraud

I gave in to the anger, hurt and the bitterness of “must”

Eventually I realised though, they we’re asking for my trust…

 

The question that threw me most was “will you trust us to do better?

The systems wrong but can be fixed,” said the apologising letter.

They asked me wrong, but really meant I could help someone find words,

Other people just like me who needed to be heard.

 

I know I often come across abrasive, cruel, or insincere,

But that’s just me and how I think, I’m no less of a safe ear.

We may speak a different language, and think a different way

But something just feels different when they’ll hear what we’ve to say

 

It’s frustrating and I’ve been there too but now I see the other side

There’s many who want to understand and take their work with pride

Those some of us who’ve been there too are taking off our armour

We’ll help you stand and make your point, as a team of quirky charmers

 

Expert by Experience doesn’t mean I know it all

It’s probably the opposite but I can catch you if you fall

We’re here in your corner, to make those who don’t, understand.

And if nothing else, I’m there to help, support and hold your hand.

 

© Do not distribute without authors permission

For Aneurin Bevan (1897-1962)

 

We are the grandchildren of Nye Bevan

some of us are blind

some of us have broken fingers

we were born all over this island

the sons and daughters of Gibran’s longing

 

We are the grandchildren of Nye Bevan

names on collections of poetry

on novels in bookshop windows

on letters from Freedom Fields

on streets all over the city.

 

We are graffiti on cornea and skin

heroes the health service kissed better

we are young children

arms outstretched beneath the dockyard sky

playing the war that killed millions

the war that took out my grandmother’s house

and the Atheneum.

We had no memory of the past

only the knowledge of its passing

of families running short of food

when the doctor was called

but the war had gone

leaving its scars on the island

on bomb sites where wildflowers took root

and with it came peace, medicine and freedom from hunger.

 

We are the grandchildren of two centuries

a list of names longer than a stretch of cats eyes on a country road.

We are supermarket workers

season ticket holders

at the Cumberland Centre

we are teenagers and nurses

librarians and old age pensioners

we are the grandchildren of the grandfather of Ebbw Vale

some of us are in a coma

some of us are sleeping.

 

© Copyright Kenny Knight (Do not distribute without authors permission)

The famed hot bath and cup of tea

An almost religious rhetoric

Like preaching water and drinking wine

The hypocrisy as the preacher forgets the preacher

Also in need of the care,

And of the wine

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