26 Wednesday Apr 2017
Posted in Death, Loss, NaPoWriMo17, Poetry
Tags
Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm poetry, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm Venus, poetry, Venus, Worldly Winds poetry
She laid on her back
and stared at the stars;
the shiniest reminded her of you,
but they too are dead.
The dead stars shine the brightest
Venus by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
2016
22 Saturday Apr 2017
Posted in Death, NaPoWriMo17, Poetry
Tags
Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm Dolor, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm poetry, Dolor, poetry
You do not see my heart break
360,000 times an hour,
my stoop becomes more pronounced,
my eyes sink and my cheeks hollow.
You do not see each line and wrinkle
from each grief ridden second,
my hair and blood thinning,
as the light departs my eyes.
Golden sunbeam hair,
moonbeam eyes and cherry crescent lips,
butterflies in her shoes.
When we walked through farrowed fields,
solis and luna blended into aeons.
I am glad you did not stay,
to witness the decay of this life.
Dolor by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
2016
20 Thursday Apr 2017
Posted in Death, Loss, NaPoWriMo17, Poetry
Tags
Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm poetry, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm Purple Haze, poetry, Purple Haze, Worldly Winds poetry
It is strange to think,
the last time I was here,
we walked together.
Rock on my friend, rock on.
I wear your jacket with pride,
stitched with love and memories.
Wear life, live, and love,
You leave a friend
shaped hole in my heart.
Farewell my friend;
go well,
fly far.
Purple Haze by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
December 2016
Picture Credit: http://irecallthepushmorethanthefall.tumblr.com/post/23345845320
11 Tuesday Apr 2017
Posted in Death, Deep Stuff!, NaPoWriMo17, Poetry
Tags
Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm Moros, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm poetry, gothic, Gothic poetry, metaphysical, Moros, poetry
In the midst of life
we are in death
clinging to tracts
as we let go of breath
Moros by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
2016
Picture Credit: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/381820874641860209/
28 Wednesday Dec 2016
Posted in Childhood Memories, Death, Grief, Loss, Poetry
I originally wrote this poem for a project I am working on at the moment. Last week I found out a good friend had passed away, and this poem seemed a fitting tribute to a gentle, kind, and dear friend. Go well good friend – go well.
We walked on the beach,
my friend, the dog, and me;
looked out to the seas,
and plotted our dreams,
my friend, the dog, and me.
We danced on the beach,
my friend, the dog, and me;
we thanked lucky stars,
couldn’t believe where we are,
my friend, the dog, and me.
We strolled on the beach,
my friend, the dog, and me,
we sat in the dunes,
reflecting on tunes,
my friend, the dog, and me.
We stood on the beach,
my friend, and me;
wondering where the time had gone,
and how life had moved on,
my friend, and me.
Looking back at the beach,
just me;
the gulls mourn the song,
of where it all went wrong,
just me — and my memories.
© We Three October 2016
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
05 Saturday Dec 2015
Posted in Anger, Death, Poetry, Publications
Tags
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/
04 Wednesday Nov 2015
Tags
Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alex Carr-Malcolm poetry, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, death, grief, loss, poetry, Yorkshire poet
Remembering my cousin.
How can it be?
When it is not natural.
Not this way,
from the blind side.
How can it be?
Order?
When it is out of order,
out of the ordinary,
extra ordinary.
You oxymoron,
natural order.
How can it be?
© Natural Order 07.11.2012
By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
Findlay’s spirit (Photo credit: beccaplusmolly)
28 Sunday Jun 2015
Posted in Death, Heartbreak, Poetry
Tags
Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, grief, longing, loss, Mother, mourning, Mum, poetry, Yorkshire poet
It has been ten years since the death of my mother. This is one of my favourite poems dedicated to her. Not a day goes by when she isn’t missed and mourned.
Eight Lilies of remembrance,
stand to mark the way.
Eight lilies, one for each of you,
respect and honour the day;
to show that I still think of you,
though that day is done,
each lily marks a bygone past,
from a lifetime that is gone.
I smell their sweet thick lily scent,
It makes me think of you;
with fondest memories in my heart,
and tears that are now few.
No longer living in my world,
It is as though you’re dead.
The lilies are memorial,
to words still left unsaid.
© Eight Lilies 2012
By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
27 Monday Apr 2015
Tags
Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alex Carr-Malcolm poetry, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm, death, depression, napowrimo, poetry, UK poet, Uk poetry, writing, Yorkshire poet
Another day, another dollar,
washing pots, preventing squalor.
Mundane tasks, day in, day out,
the meaning of life, what’s it all about?
She takes the knife from the dishwasher rack,
and dries it slowly, stopped in her tracks,
she stops to think by the kitchen sink –
what if, what if, what if?
To push the knife deep in my gut,
would it slip in, like a needle in butter
would it wrinkle, like a blunt knife tomato
or would it resist, like a half cooked potato
Would it be simple or would it be hard to
plunge deep the steel, its passage legato
would it feel cold or would it feel hot
should I do it, or should I not?
Would it induce an arterial spurt
like Pollock upon my cobwebbed wall dirt
or would it just ooze and be warm wet and sticky
would she fall to her knees looking pallid and sickly
The dog nudges past which jolts back to reality
and someone shouts through the closed kitchen door
‘Mum, where’s the remote for the cable TV?’
I dry up the knife and place it back in the drawer
What if, what if, what if?
© What if? 2015
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
