From: Walking Like a Human
“Pigeon’s Wing Blue”
in a ukulele cuddle
of bramber green festival
flutter and abandoned feathers
it’s blue that drew me in
a clumsy flapping of startled
flocks of pigeons land
among copper-lime leaves
of some old square tree.
Fallumping
—they’re off again!
“Seeing Blue Kind”
Blue skies in hiding—
Hmm…instead…
Wobbling bubble edges grasping light
Popping in the giggle of a child’s eye.
Bunting clings to its festive flair,
Decorating with light blues, whites, and navies,
All throughout the park’s square.
Tumbling toddler, puffy baby blue jacket
With diggers and planes and ladders,
Hopped across bars of cerulean
Streaking fun through paths of melodic air,
Preparing in warmth, cheerful songs lifted in hope:
Searching for blue in
Laundered shirts draped to dry
Behind blue balcony bars
As denim soaks darkly from
Grey-glistened rains.
—Platforms which boast also of these:
Plastic garden chairs, plant pots, carts of trays
From humble abodes—
All in some sort of shading of blue.
Signage streaks in chalked cotton candy hue,
And jumpers of unicorn-hooded children,
Swinging on swings,
Pushed by Nanna who’s rain-coated
In sensible naval blue.
And, there’s a backpack to carry all of today;
A water bottle capped to hydrate
(So as not to faint);
A scarf with floral patterns blossoming in cornflower;
And, as a host of feathers flaps to the sky,
It’s neighborhood laughter
That pierces these greyed-out skies
With its happiest of humanity all dressed-up in blue.
But, oh, and the clouds!
They opened to let Azul sing:
Now fully exposed and beckoning free.
From: A Space for Us: Women’s Ways and Missions Walking Tour
“Thanks for Picking That Up”
Discarded chewing gum packets of extra
Duracell batteries in double A
Puddles of fallen leaves
Sodden tissues with
Hungover tears and this morning’s rain
Bent yellow lid, crumpled white plastic coffee top
Communist stickers—will you join the party?
Cigarette butts—I thought people were over it
Smoking cannabis or they just vaped?
Watery trifle on offer, abandoned
Complete with chewed upon plastic spoon
Aluminium foil castaway from midnight lunching
Blue gloves draped on the curb
Like a broken man’s hand
Crisp packets
And chewing gum pressed
Biscuit trays flexibly holding crumbs
Cans of paint having left their mark
With spatterings of a grandiose mistake
Star a manger cups
Zip ties looped and zip ties flat, ready to use
Bin bags piled by a tree
…someone tried to collect it all,
But it soon ripped to spill
Pop tabs dismembered
Receipts and shopping lists
Wet footprints
(temporary, unlike concrete impressions left for all time)
Cobwebs catching nothing good for spiders to eat
Tracts dropped, no religious showings
A folded and black, clinical covid mask—do people still have these?
Toothpick with floss, cat litter scattered and cat tuna packets ripped
Strips of yellow with black numbers marking something
Cracked wine glass emptied, de-stemmed
By the sewer drain
Hair binders in every color
And rubber bands—some might still even be elastic?
The corner bit of a foot-scraping welcome mat—how?!
Newspapers folded
Empty poo bags
Cans crushed and flat
Having already given up their wings
“Anonymous Women Heard: Given More Than Names”
There’s Mary, Emily, Carrie, and Irene,
Evelyn, Claudia, Mary, Vanessa, and Dorothy,
Elizabeth, Linda, Mary again, and of course,
Virginia howls in the books and streets each memory’s night.
To remember in names
Further than what’s left on tombstones,
In cemeteries but, engraved in history’s street names,
—Lest we forget
What she’s battled, achieved
—for herself and less fortunate those:
Others without a voice
Offering freedom in options
When all’s been stolen, enforced choices
Novelizing artistic movements
Progressive in charitable work
For what opened doors and
Created homes alive with life:
For women breathing and bleeding behind closed doors.
From: 26 Wordstock @ Bloomsbury Festival
“jovial.writers”
Gathered for words
Collective humans among tombs
Of dimly lit library rooms
However, today’s sun
Shines the lively hope of
Communicating on a literary stage
(For people’s sake)
As listeners liven up
Collaborate, in British
Joviality, in potential
—an open book?
Perhaps…
Our story yet to be told.
“Alex and the Raptors”
To write of flying friends
Rescued from extinction
Found again:
A child’s fascination glimmers,
…Raptured By Raptors…
Creating symphonic involvement,
Keeping them soaring
In both Isle and Yorkshire skies.
Melodies emboldened to play on repeat
For future generations
Listening to their eery calls
Lifting on kite-drifting wings,
Playing gigs on independent stages
Raising titles for populations to be sustained
“neurodivergence & creativity”
rounds of applause
sore hands to lead
celebrating participation
blue ribbons for living
an American dream
in London with herringbone
wood floor and grasping
a firefly of a spark
moving idea into billowed flourishing
laced up trainers
stylish boots in sequined
sparkling connective tissue
of what flows through
these veins and creativity
streams in floods
in so much vigor
to bleed LIFE on
pages turning
heads and surreptitious
poetic variety
in brains pulsating
diversely collaborative
highlight uniqueness
in line by line bravery
meandering audacious stanzas
articulated in loud hoorays!!
“to be understood or missed”
would you look at me?
but look away actually—
I want you to know
me but I’m afraid
of what you might
think you
think you see…
and this is me
but what do you see?
is it accurate?
is it really me?
is it reflections of
you instead, you see?
vibrations, let anxiety
in this container
speak, feel, wiggle,
sing arias in luminescent
freedom from captivity
is this what you see?
is this what it means to be me?
is this what inspired musical
emotions held in…
mutual understanding
—in doubly empathisationing
“non chronology”
humankind
psychology
supernatural
materialism
positivism
hidden tower
humanism
alphabetical
lined up in decimals
white tags highlighting dots
and soul searching
cloth spines
embossed golden
in man’s own imagination
cities of philosophies
flim-flam
and all of the non-diagnosed,
un-catalogued printings
“i guess we are poets”
weaving thoughts progressive
amongst both fibrous and concrete
spider webbéd frenzy
catching distraction thieves
distilling raindrops as goblets
pouring thirst-quenched reality
of prayers in disjointed
eternally connected fiends
liberating factions
in fascinations illuminating
“engendered legacy”
‘Creativity is impulsivity gone right!’
No space for
Disempowered muting!
Make way for
Visceral mutiny!
For constraint holds space
So quenchingly liberating!
No interlopers here—
All belong!
Hereby balancing pains
To create a wake in
Waters beyond the Thames,
Lasting the depths
For generations!
Therefore, after decades still:
Rise up and create!
“Poetry doesn’t really need to be anything.”
Brains firing on all syllables
Effusive love conveyed beyond words
Barn Owls swooping, en-sketched
As harps play cadenzas on centre stage
—yet, no fears allowed in
For it’s most important to carry
What’s beautiful in its own right,
Giving time instead of performing fast.
It’s human.
It’s kind.
Holding yellow sticky notes
And handwritten signs
Beckoning birds of prey (or writers)
To give his forehead a peck of a note
And yet, and yet,
Only vultures remain:
For they pass across dreary skies or bright
With an acid embellied to
Enjoy any rabies or what’s toxic
That could kill the others…
But, they consume it all and thrive!
Other creatures needn’t imbibe.
From: Picardy Players: Birch Tales
“waiting in sound”
velvet strings embed
harmony within human bones
humming deep in dreams
and the sap rises as
evening avians bellow sweets
“‘I found the two women,’ they laughed.”
So. Many. Old. White. Men.
Peer out at me,
Poised in oils, stroked,
Ornately framed,
Gilded in serious poses.
—Oh! There are
a couple of women
…let’s hang them in the back.
Praise be for the men
(I suppose)
Who might have
Championed the women,
Linking arms for their wins…….
But, even more
For the artist women
Whose resilience
Invited an increase of
Women to birth their
Own creative song
—But, where is everyone else?!
“Fantastical Creatures”
Unknowns emerging:
These shadowed woods—
Home to what’s
Beastly and Fierce
Danger threatens:
In chasing monsters
In screeching dreams
Such horrid, such terrible
Imaginings.
A young boy’s intrigue.
With his pet puppy
By his side
No fears haunt him at night.
“Bread For You”
Provision
Betrothal
Hosting
Matches Made
Security
But, Hurried
In Promises
You Already Gave
—alerted—
an empty table
at home awaits
but, your new life
Provides
Always
Together.
There will be bread for you.
“Musicians Depicting”
Singers sending
…sisterly expectations;
Lutes
…demanding for grudges explained;
Harpsichords
…questioning for lovers’ abandonment;
Tenors
…asking for monkish forgiveness;
Violas
…requesting brotherly support;
Strings
…praying for angelic intervention;
Harps
…begging for familial support;
Recorders
…mourning, for Death came too soon;
And, with these players
…searching for circular truths.
————————————————
Molly Ovenden, Minnesotan Yorkshire-lover, at home both in Duluth and England, she lives with her bearded, furniture-making Englishman husband, Max. Molly helps people become the writers they’ve dreamed of being and changes the world with Beauty as arrows of Hope, making it better one poem at a time. When she’s not writing poetry on her typewriter, she’s coaching, reading, laughing, smiling, eating, drinking tea and coffee, painting, daydreaming, training for marathons, doing yoga, or going for circular walks.
mollyovenden.com
@mollyovendencreativity
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