Wednesday, 28 July 2010

curtain twitches

instead of hiding away from the rare patches of glorious summer-like weather that England is prone to get i decided that i would free myself from staring at a computer screen a week or two ago, i thought i'd take a walk to my dad's house, but i'd take a long meandering walk with no real sense of direction or urgency, finding myself taking all manner of twists and turns before eventually walking along the river towards Waltham Abbey and then back to Waltham Cross.

and what a journey, i hadn't really had time to reflect on it as it was so tiring, not only did i manage to make a fifteen minute walk last a good two and a half hours, but i also found and photographed a stray sofa and wrote a poem on the journey.

all of this was acheived in flip flops too!

(while also staying safe and liberally applying sun tan lotion)

i think the poem is fairly self explanatory, just trying to imagine a different point of view, and i wrote it in my phone as a text message while i let my flip-flop clad feet carry me away from the strange old lady that had been staring at me from her window.

the curtain twitches and cold dead eyes peer out.
any sense of soul has long since departed.
the only thing left is a clammy distrust of everything.
 the sun turns up the temperature on the streets,
yet she traps herself in her mausoleum.
life has been moving on without her withered existence,
life moves on on the other side of her curtain,
her home now a crypt from which she keeps watch,
life has moved on,
and anything she sees moving she hates.



  1. glen.....i like your creativeness....but eveything seems so dark?!

    sounds like a nice walk though :-)

  2. thanks!!

    i think my creative side is a flipside to my normal life, i write so much downbeat poetry because i think that's where i channel that specific energy, i couldn't stand to be a miserable person.

    and my girlfriend moans that all my music sounds too dark.

    she actually thinks this poem is rather light hearted

  3. My budgie’s dead.
    My husbands dead.
    Whys that man in flip flops
    starring in side my head.
    Can he read my mind?
    Does he realise I’m nearly blind.
    shell I go out and give him a piece of my mind?
    will he mind? would he mind?
    my eyes are cold , my bones are stiff.
    If only some one would talk, my spirit would lift
    I’m thinking hard trying to will him over,
    one day he will be wearing a great thick pullover,
    using a walking stick all bent over.
    Remembering the giging night after night
    and walking home in the early light.
    As he sits and tries to remember
    long ago bands, with girl friends holding hands
    missing his friends, is mum and dad.
    The boat in the front room he never had.
    Wishing some one would just come and talk
    help him eat the sweets his bought.
    May be next time he'll give wave,
    and then coming over it’s just a thought?
    I hope some of this stays inside his head,
    The seeds have been planted,
    watered and fed.
    O! did I tell you my budgie’s dead?