Frosty Morning

white sparkling sugar sprinkles
like frosty breakfast cereals
or a sticky pastry treat

coat these hardy little leaves
like polar explorers’ beards
or a husky’s tiny whiskers

they wait for the sun to rise
like breaths of warm air
or a welcoming kiss

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Tweeting from beyond the grave

dead poets
dead knowits
dead actors
dead artists
dead singers
dead guitarists
dead dodos
dead deities
dead revolutionaries
dead Rosemary's 
dead presidents
dead residents
dead ringers
dead gunslingers
Dead Kennedys
dead nobodies
dead celebs
dead corpses
dead doornails
dead ducks
dead whippets
dead snippets 
dead beats
dead tweets
from 
beyond 
the grave
(amazing how they manage 
their profiles and accounts)

prisoners

the sun struggles to surmount
the ridge across the valley
where pylons quick step
in double lined formations
bringing their electricity
to help power the morning
as I watch through the bars
of my writing room blinds
a contented prisoner
to the spectacle

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Woodland Will

Shush, the trees are sleeping
early morning, autumn, winter
limbs and boughs silently listening
for the chop chop of the woodsman’s axe

they know before their sap starts rising
that the will of the man will be done
for his fire there needs to be coppicing
and cries of timber felling

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Crombies

we used to buy for pennies
old Crombie overcoats
from church jumble sales
with smooth ‘n’ silky linings
and boy did they look good
and boy did they feel good
over our ripped jeans
and safety pinned shirts
with laced-up boots
and dyed mohicans
we brought the past back to life
with a pogo and a shout
and we placed our lives
in those warm deep pockets
in mostly small change
and Marlboro tens
our hard won tickets
to see our heroes cavort
The Clash, The Stranglers, Ian Dury
at The Venue or Apollo
taking the train up from Brighton
feet up in the first class smokers
respectfully ignored
because we did look threatening
although in fact
we were just some kids
from white middle class
south of England suburbia
wearing Anti-Nazi League badges
and dead men’s Crombies
from church jumble sales

PUNK’S NOT DEAD – WE’RE STILL DYING!

 

(inspired by ‘Passing Fashions’ by Chris Armstrong
https://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=72429)

Thank you to the One Hundred(s)

Dear One Hundred Friend(s)
This haiku is just for you
Thank you very much

It’s actually quite difficult keeping track of follower numbers as the WordPress counter doesn’t appear to register non-WordPress account holders who follow by email. It occurred to me that I may have already passed the One Hundred mark but no matter. What is important is the support and encouragement we offer each other on a daily basis, both as writers and fellow human beings, often treading the same precarious path between light and dark, day and night, right and wrong.

So for the purpose of this little milestone, I dedicate the above haiku to two people:

Firstly, my Twitter friend @jillcdalin – I used to have a Twitter account but never used it much. A couple of months ago I decided to delete it and start again and since then have found some wonderfully talented and kind writing friends. I didn’t know what to expect of myself when I rejoined. I’m not one for self-publicising excessively, preferring in part to share my writing rather than only offering it up to journals and competitions. But Twitter, with its limited word count, offers the perfect habitat for haiku and micropoetry and the perfect conditions to spark exchanges between Twitter friends. Long may that continue. If you fancy a twitter come find me @ColinHillWriter

Secondly, to Eunoia Review who hit the follow button at about the same time and by coincidence today published a poem by my good friend and poet Paul Waring

Thank you both and thank you to the previous 99 or so followers of my humble blog. I raise a glass of herbal tea and drink a toast to you all. Here’s to the next One Hundred!

Best wishes,

Colin.

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