Grace

The waves approach in grey swathes,

The peach-swollen sun ripples its grace.

I have come, here, to the water’s edge

A man without life, a man on a ledge.

Toes in the water, my mind in limbo…

Could this just be a dream though?

© K.N.Liddington

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I’d rather be sat here amidst these smiling, stranger-faces,

Than back at home weeping over my long-lost graces.

 

Though I may be alone yet surrounded by the many,

I find comfort in the sound of them making merry.

 

The cavern in my stomach is muffled by their chatter,

Seemingly, my pain, here, doesn’t really matter.

 

I can bask in the glow of their happy exchanges,

And hope and wish that my own circumstance changes.

 

© K.N.Liddington

London Tonight

London tonight – is how I feel.

The rain makes rivulets of eels,

Black tarmac and slick pavement,

Wet leather and callous intent.

 

The wind and the streets and the smell…

I see my torment in its mirror for a spell.

© K.N.Liddington

Nothing

He didn’t see it… in the moments where the love bled out of me,

like the leaving of a plague.

I boiled it forth from me.

I scourged myself of love in its rampant, volcanic rivers.

I died, and I lived for it… till I denounced it.

Let every sand grain coarsely erode me, till nothing but deference is left.

Nothing but the blackest night.

Nothing but the darkest soul.

Nothing.

© K.N.Liddington

Three Times

Three times.

Three times, in the middle of the night

I’ve woke mid-nightmare as I shove you so hard, out of our bed.

Get out

Get out

My subconscious said.

 

The echoes of your actions suppressed in my mind;

it’s hollow haunted corridors run filthy with your lies.

 

Three times.

Three times, in the middle of the night

I’ve woke to cold sweats and you clung to me, as a babe to a breast.

Get out

Get out

May I never rest?

 

The shackles you once thought bound me to you forever,

are rattling off with each succeeding night terror.

 

Three times.

Three times, in the middle of the night

I’ve woke to hot tears and palpitations, my heart filled with dread.

Get out!

Get out!

This love – is dead.

© K.N.Liddington

The Man Of Misogyny

She was treading air,

a wide-eyed tourist of the world,

outlook positive and forecast fair.

She was a country girl.

 

He rode the wave of ego

setting a course for selfish stars

hanging on to entitlement, though

he was the baddest boy by far.

 

They met and he deftly crept

into her moonshine eyes,

in to her sapling heart and yet

he sought to rewrite the ledger with lies.

 

Mother was a harsh taskmaster.

The man of misogyny.

took his roots in disaster

from a young age, you see.

 

Her daddy had always been tough.

That’s how it’s supposed to be,

conditional love is love enough.

She wouldn’t know different, would she?

 

At first, it was living the lie:

the man of honour,

the man of light,

She was aglow. Her face a happy sigh.

 

Then came the slow unveilings:

he liked to shout and smash,

he liked to break things,

she would shiver at each crash.

 

Then there was that other one,

the twilight-night-time secret.

But that was back then and now she’s gone,

Besides she’d pushed him to it.

 

The man of selfish blindness.

Wanting to make her in his broken image

then wielding hurt and unkindness

to save being alone in misery’s cage.

 

The man of dark desires.

He liked to get in and break you down,

get in and start wildfires,

grinning under his Master’s crown.

 

She was still soft to the touch,

Still in too deep and hopeful

it would get better, it wouldn’t take much

for him to respect her and be faithful.

 

The man of misogyny.

He disregards communication,

she shuts up from fear of calamity.

He stews with resentful determination.

 

She grows cold, grows silent.

Tries harder, drinks harder.

In her liver, the toxic serpent

twists and takes her mind farther.

 

The man of mystery.

One night he doesn’t come home,

4 am she finally falls asleep.

He didn’t even phone.

 

The man of misogyny.

Ignores her requests

to check for a gas leak,

He said it’s all in her head.

 

The man of misogyny.

Would you know?

Well, he gets hungry

and she always cooks up a show.

 

What disastrous irony

that she died at the stove

of the man of misogyny.

 

He saw the debris,

cursed,

reversed,

and off he drove.

© K.N.Liddington

 

Whitewashed in blue

The room,

the room,

suddenly –

whitewashed in blue.

This… this came too soon!

But – I will,

I will,

return to you.

 

Whitewashed in blue

and still, I think of you,

feelings like walls stripped

and whitewashed in blue.

But – I will,

I will,

return to you.

 

The light floods my eyes

whitewashed in blue,

oh, so tender memories of you.

But – will I,

will I,

be returned to you?

 

                                             © K.N.Liddington

Grenfell Tower / Our Saddest Hour

Nothing can express the pain, the shock, the sorrow,

That so many loved ones, will not see tomorrow.

Yet, too, there is overwhelming gratitude and pride,

In the heroism of those who braved the hell inside.

There is beauty in London’s outpouring of love and unity,

A coming-together for the victims of our community.

On a makeshift wall lies poignant commemoration,

Flowers and cards lay at the feet of devastation.

What now?

Now, there must be a decisive reckoning –

Cry a rage for change that’s deafening!

No more can they neglect to protect the poor,

We demand and must have so much more.

            © K.N.Liddington

Manchester

Oh, great city of Manchester!

How our hearts go out to her.

Tales of bloody devastation,

Can only defy our imagination.

 

Yet, in such times of fear,

Look and know we are here,

One community for good,

Peace and love understood.

 

Your pain echoes and is felt,

With the awful hand dealt,

Yet, your strength is louder,

The world feels your power.

 

Gone  –  but not forgotten.

Hurt  –  but not stopped.

Live on, Manchester and thrive!

Because terror we will survive.

© K.N.Liddington