Left Behind
15 Saturday Apr 2017
Posted Anger, NaPoWriMo17, Poetry, Political
in15 Saturday Apr 2017
Posted Anger, NaPoWriMo17, Poetry, Political
in05 Saturday Dec 2015
Posted Anger, Death, Poetry, Publications
inTags
Alex Carr-Malcolm Counting Magpies, Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alex Carr-Malcolm poetry, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, Counting Magpies, Counting Magpies Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, Counting Magpies Anthology, Counting Magpies Poetry, Counting Magpies War Child, poetry, UK poet, war, War Child, War Child Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, war poetry, writing, Yorkshire poet
Good news!
The paperback version of Counting Magpies is imminent! I will also be releasing a limited edition edition. The limited edition will contain three bonus poems and will be signed by my own fair hand. If you choose, I will also hand write one of my poems of your choice inside the book.
In the meantime here is a poem from Counting Magpies – a sneak preview!
Click on the picture of the book to take you to Amazon.
War Child
War child, far child,
not in my back yard child,
foul flies, infesting eyes,
freely grief is advertised.
Blasé news, propaganda views,
stretchered to the blues and twos.
Feuding plans, dividing clans,
charity absolving man.
Splitting heads, landmines, legs,
rubberneck, the child who begs,
behind the eyes, traumatized,
rape and murder legitimized.
Arms and gear, year on year,
dealers, spreadsheets, profiteer,
bankers, warlords, politician,
making schisms, capitalism.
War child, far child,
not in my back yard child.
© War Child by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
Taken from Counting Magpies 2015
21 Saturday Nov 2015
Tags
Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alex Carr-Malcolm Vanessa, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, death, grief, heartbreak, poetry, Rape, Suicide, Yorkshire poet
Oh Vanessa, Vanessa,
where do you get off?
with your dark overlord poetry,
another trendy hip goth.
Vampiric feasting from honest dark grief,
poetic death porn, for your gratuitous relief.
Stand up! Stand up! You superstar!
Perform and pose, so we see who you are.
Don’t think of your morals, your duty, or ethics,
just another shock jock out to get your death fix.
Don’t think of the victims, dead or alive,
those with slashed apart souls just trying to strive,
to cope with the day and get through to the end,
with ripped apart lives that can never mend;
trying to breathe, lungs molten with mourning,
to those who’ve met death without prior warning,
who’ve stood at the edge of the gaping abyss,
and see your floor show for the ego fix that is.
Just think of your creed, your name and your art,
don’t care for the wake of what’s torn apart.
After all – responsibility – is it all yours?
Oh no – surely not – you perform for your cause!
I’ll remember your face and your soft slick show,
as you pose to the kids on your high pedestal;
but the audience was captive, no choice in the matter,
as you trotted out mentally destructive chatter.
Stuck on the front in the audience stare,
in a flashback that rendered me froze to the chair,
reliving the horror, of the cruelty of death,
the pain and the agony spewed from your breath.
Did you even know what you had done?
either ignorance, or intended, it can’t be undone.
You’ve uncaged a monster that now preys on my mind,
I cannot conceive someone can be that unkind,
So that takes me to ignorance, and the stupidity is,
Oh Vanessa, Vanessa, it was you that did this.
© Vanessa 25.11.2014
By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
Picture credit: Pinteresthttps://uk.pinterest.com/pin/524317581589569768/
20 Wednesday May 2015
Tags
Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alex Carr-Malcolm poetry, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, anger, death, grief, My Boy, poetry, Police, UK poet, Uk poetry, Yorkshire poet
That is my boy.
The one you shot,
the one you smote,
the Bactrian one
whose back you broke.
That is my boy.
The one you left
for dead in a cell,
who jerked and seized,
you thought he signed well.
That is my boy.
The one who is Deaf,
frogmarched and chained,
not understood,
his language restrained.
That is my boy.
The one who is ill,
as you bore down on his chest,
you broke his heart,
along with the rest.
That is my boy.
The one who is black,
the one who is white,
the one left hanging,
in a cell out of sight.
That is my boy.
The one you shot,
the one you smote,
the Bactrian one
whose back you broke.
That is my boy,
and it is your boy too.
© My Boy 18.05.2015
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
Picture Credit:https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/306667055852311916/
Picture Credit: Found on sliptalk.com
This art installation was erected by South African artist Marco Cianfanelli, stands on the spot where Nelson Mandela was arrested 50 years ago. The monument is constructed out of 50 separate steel bars to represent 50 years since the capture.
15 Sunday Sep 2013
Tags
Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, anger, depression, discontent, marriage, poetry, UK poet, Uk poetry, writing, Yorkshire poet
Enough!
I exclaim.
I’ve had enough!
I take a house brick
and lob it into the still water,
causing the matrimonial boat to capsize.
I am forty seven and I’ve had enough.
I will pout and stamp my foot
and wait for the waves
of discontent to wash
against my shoes.
Once and for all
I have had
Enough!
© Enough! 17.08.2013
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
Parma oct 12 2009 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
04 Sunday Aug 2013
Posted Anger, Heartbreak, Loss, Love, Poetry
inTags
Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, Cupid, Eros, heartbreak, Libertine, love, poetry, UK poet, Valentino, Villain, Yorkshire poet
Oh man of mystery,
you are not,
a libertine
in a chaser shot.
A twirling rake
in a black top hat,
a villainous snake,
and a lovelorn rat.
Valentino
would’ve wept,
void of dreams,
whilst you slept.
Cupid screams,
words too blue,
as Eros flees,
from the sight of you.
© My Libertine 04.08.2013
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
English: A stereotypical caricature of a villain (i.e. generic melodrama villain stock character, with handlebar moustache and black top-hat). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
03 Friday May 2013
Posted Anger, Deep Stuff!, Poetry
inTags
Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, celebrity, false refuge, poetry, UK poet, worship, writing, Yorkshire poet
Leave
the Kings in their Kingdoms
and the Emperors in their Empires
Bring
the Poets and their portents
to the realms of desire
Scorn prophetic Prophets
with their commanding ire
Sing
jubilation for the mundane Messiah
and courting Celebrity
Mankind misfires
© Acolyte 02.05.2013
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
Engraving of Ann Eliza Bleecker, a socialite and noted poet of New York, United States during the 18th century (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
12 Friday Apr 2013
Posted Anger, Longing & Waiting, Poetry
inTags
Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, anger, napowrimo, peace, poetry, privacy, quiet, solitude, UK poet, Yorkshire poet
Always watching – ever present,
never a moment of peace.
I long for the quiet,
the housewives dream;
no privacy, always eyes watching,
with a question or a request.
Leave me alone – let me be,
to read my books and write my words.
Let me listen to my music,
sad and soulful.
Let me sit in my garden
and watch the flowers
dance in the summer breeze.
Let me be -just for a while.
Stop watching, stop minding
and let me be.
Let me have my privacy.
Alone with my thought and memories.
Alone with my daydreams and visionaries.
Leave me in my solitude,
alone and in love with my dreams.
© Let Me Be 2012
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
Solitude (Photo credit: Moyan_Brenn)
08 Tuesday Jan 2013
Posted Anger, Deep Stuff!, Loss, Poetry
inTags
Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, bankers, depression, mining, poetry, political, politics, poverty, shame, steel works, strikes
Iconic charming history,
repeats the sad refrain,
as, once more, we get screwed over,
we sing along again;
the blues echo a doleful tune,
and strike the same discord,
man mines the depths of misery,
bank on, fools, gold reward!
We steel ourselves with loyalty,
patriotic to the ends,
whilst red skies scream solemnity,
we bend our plastic friends.
Ironic charnel history,
repeats the shame, refrain,
prepare to get screwed over,
as we sing along in vain.
© Striking the Blues 08.01.2013
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
Pit head silhouette (Photo credit: alastairb)
07 Friday Dec 2012
Tags
Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, anger, Dagger, happy ever after, once upon a time, poetry, Relationships
He loves her,
her quirks amuse him,
if she is happy,
he is happy.
She loves him,
his idiosyncrasies endear,
if he is happy,
she is happy.
He knows physically,
he is King;
she knows mentally,
she is Queen.
Until,
one day…
just beyond,
the happy ever after…
Verbal daggers,
literal daggers,
it’s all the same,
what’s in a name?
© Once Upon a Time 07.12.2012
By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
English: Replica of a Viking Dagger by Sid Birt (Photo credit: Wikipedia)