Tag Archives: dancing

Vitamin Glee

blue bright citrus citrus fruit

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I am filled with vitamin D, with a pink
lemonade kiss and a fancy free
Candy floss smile.

It is a marvellous and menacing mischief
that had now pumped up my heart,
and a vitamin glee that I have swallowed.

Rays of sunbeams are hiding in my sweater
and my unshaven legs – prickling
with joy, how glorious to be shown the light.

I am shimmering and dancing in my pants,
and there is a party in my bed socks –
And they rock, because bed socks do that.

And if my eyes were as blue as the sky
-and they are as blue as the sky,
they would be lost, in disguise and forever.

“What is this poem you ask me muse?”
“What is its purpose?”
“The purpose my beautiful fairy-tale wife,

Is that summer came for a day,
Like sand in my toes and a three wheeler bike
It snapped its elastic on my bum cheek and cheered.”

©Eilidh G Clark

Happy Vision

foggy lake

Photo by Quang Nguyen Vinh on Pexels.com

I looked in to the distance, not so far away,
the sparkling lake was dancing
to celebrate a perfect day.
Spring burst through the mother earth
and coloured it with sun
painted it with brightness
and completed it with fun.
I looked upon the picture
and felt my soul awake,
then a temperamental notion
was to jump into the lake.
instead I breathed in firmly
and I fell into the day
and let this happy vision
take me out to play.
I walked into the open air
the suns arms hugged me tight
and I held that shiny feeling
til it disappeared at night.

©Eilidh G Clark

Wheelie Bin Soup

This poem was published in the UOS Creative Writing anthology yearbook. It also appeared in an exhibition titled Poetry in Windows at the 2019 BIG LIT festival at Gatehouse on Fleet

green trash bin on green grass field

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Nicked, frae below a strummin street licht,

The muckle great bin schrinks low to the grund.

Flashes of blue and orange snap

on its rusty armour. Half foo

 

it rumbles tae the fit o Randolf crescent where

the pavement sinks beneath  brae, bumpin

ower boulders ,beer cans and deed bracken. Joyriding.

It flips its lid to the moon.

 

And the moon slides behind a bramble

Bush, and the bush slips behind a tree that

sucks air from the shadows . Released.

 

Skirting the embankment, teeterin. Then nose-diving heed first,

puking a cocktails o last week’s cardboard shite

into the Bannock burn. Branded confetti drookit,

Dance around the plastic shell celebrating

a liquid grave.

©Eilidh G Clark