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I was doing some clearing out recently and came across a couple of poems I'd scribbled a few years ago. Having just read Nabila's poem about falling I thought this one of mine is quite topical. ooh and I mustn't forget to thank SG for the title suggestion and word correction!

Question

Is it possible that the fence,
in its proverbial form,
could remain in place to be
straddled indefinitely;
that the downward spiral
could be teetered on for all
eternity without causing
the slipping, sliding, and
forcing of a reluctant heart
to leave imagined safety?

I'm going to the states before my my brothers and sisters, and all my mates; America is the place you saw on TV through programmes like Different Strokes, Starksky and Hutch, Kojak, and the Streets of San Francisco. If anything the whole fiasco previously made me abandon my nerves and got me more stoked up about travelling for the first time.

SET target 1000 words per day. Morning result- Zero. The words run around like naughty school children, unruly, wild and fighting inside his head. They don’t get into line and form that first sentence. For two hours he labours, blank page remains blank. It’s writer’s block. He rises from his desk and makes a cup of coffee; the strong smell of caffeine is good. Unable to resist, he takes a sip and burns his mouth.

Four girls’ - side by side, cycling:
Swapping stories from their day

Baskets brimmed with books and bags.

An April breeze brushes their cheeks;
ruffles their navy skirts’

Dipping down ditches, dirt, dashing socks.

Laughter lifts them up from their saddles; shoes scuff
at stop signs, jutting corners, stones ping against
spokes.

Silence, as they approach home

The droning of bicycle lamps, drowned by dead pedals.

Dawdling to their doors, heaving holdalls.

They say goodnight, stepping inside their houses:
Hoping to sleep, parents pester.

We took the same route every Sunday. My Gran had to drag Bazil out of the front door, he was so fat. The hill we climbed seemed so far away from the cosiness of my Gran’s front room. The wind often gushed it’s way through your jumper, duffle coat and into your bones, leaving your teeth chattering and lips blue.

My car's just died.
As it splutters to a halt,
I seize the chance to explore.

I emerge, the heat
Engulfing me as I open the door.
My tanned face a dark brown
As it cakes in the summer sun.

Lighting a cigarette,
I can feel the white shirt I'm wearing
Glued to my back.

I reach for my comb, running it
Frantically through my locks.
I advance further, cigarette
Dangling from mouth.

I remembered my water bottle,
Recently filled,
Hung around my neck.

I walk nonchalantly through
The barren landscape,
Looking back at the car,
The driver's door wide open.