YouTube Tuesday: Death in the Summer

Well, I’ve been away for a couple of days, super busy with the 50th Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies at the University of Birmingham. The Symposium was fantastic, I got to see some great papers and meet some inspiring academics.

12 hour days of volunteering now over, it’s time for another YouTube Tuesday. Here’s Death in the Summer.

Death in the Summer

Icicles hanging in rows from the ceiling
Dripping freezing water onto the tiles
Until a pool that chills me forms below

It’s summer outside; inside winter reigns
Where heat cannot penetrate, and water drips
Though the icicles refuse to melt away

Children play merry games of chase in the playground
Parents bask in the midday sun with lazy abandon
And there is frost around me in this frozen wasteland

Smiles should ease the harshness of this storm
Should, a word on which to focus all attention
But still those icicles drip water onto the tiles

The kitchen is abandoned to another dimension
Where this bleak wilderness has not taken control
Nor the universe agreed upon my icy tomb

The tiles were the final place you laid your head


I love the short, sharp sentences in this poem to highlight the writer’s message.

Caffeinated Lynne. A Poet with A Pen.


I hate arguments.
The way I’m always wrong.
How you raise your voice.
Incessant swearing.
I do everything.
I am Super-“You-Name-It.”
You say it’s My “Job” —
because you work “all day.”
So you are a slob?
You have no respect.
I am human. I get tired.
Wouldn’t you? Trade me.
The kids. My mom. Bills.
School. Laundry. The house. Tired yet?
You wouldn’t last here.
We are so different.
I love my family. You don’t.
You hate visiting.
You are on your cell —
if you go. But that is you.
“Winding-down” is it?
I love spending time
with my kids. You become bored.
Shhh! You fell asleep!
Eleven years now.
We don’t cuddle, hug, kiss– touch.
Sleep in the same room–
And you try– now. You
want to make it work. Like  the
times before– But it
never lasts. We are
damaged from the inside. Your
words.. they…

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Life Moves On

I went back through my life
In old diaries
On social media, in embarrassing posts
Tagged by friends
On nights out
In the club, surrounded by strangers
Followed by scribbled notes
On hungover mornings
With hints of regret hidden
Between words written with shaking hands.
It was a stepping stone
This looking back
From one world to another –
From youthful freedom
To forty hours a week, working
As a drone
Some faceless soul
Whose memories can surface only
On Saturday nights,
Returning momentarily
To those old diaries
And social media

You Just Don’t Understand

Emily stared at the menu and sighed. The food sounded delicious, but it was so overpriced. There was no way she could justify paying over the top prices just because her friends were going.

Samantha spotted her gazing at the photo of the brownie in the dessert section and placed a hand on Emily’s arm.

‘Don’t worry about the price,’ she said, ‘I’ll pay for yours.’

Emily smiled, but shook her head. ‘I can’t ask you to do that,’ she said.

‘Sure you can. Nobody needs to know. You can cover the taxi fare – it won’t be that much. Or you can buy me a drink sometime.  Come on, it won’t be the same without you there.’

Emily looked up from the menu and caught Samantha’s eye.

‘Oh, all right,’ she gave in. ‘Thanks. I’ll pay you back, somehow. I promise.’

‘Like I said, don’t worry about it. A great meal out with friends this weekend, and everything will feel better.’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Emily paused, looking back down at the menu to mentally make her choices ahead of schedule. Then she said, ‘I’m going to need a new dress, now.’

Samantha laughed. ‘You can’t afford the meal, you can’t afford a new dress,’ she pointed out. Emily grinned.

‘You know, Sam, you just don’t understand.’

‘No,’ said Samantha, ‘I get it.’ She glanced up and down the street, then rubbed her hands together eagerly. ‘Well, no time like the present, is there?’

Live On by Joyfrida Anindo

The road is tough and rough,
Corpses grow like weeds on bumps,
Live on, Don’t stop,
Avert your eyes where need be,
Don’t look them in the eye as they die,
They said,
But I couldn’t understand
Why they chose to look but not see,
Why they could see and not feel,
Why they could feel and do nothing,
Keep living,
They said…

About Joyfrida

This poetry was written by Joyfrida Anindo. She is a Kenyan lady who lives and works in Nairobi, Kenya.

You can visit Joyfrida’s blog and read more of her writing here:

Another great submission from Joyfrida! Check out her last submission, Cracks of Time, or visit the Submit page to submit your own writing. I’m especially keen to see good writing tips and poetry right now.

Things to Live For

New movies
New shoes
The carefree, welcome feeling
Of a mid-afternoon snooze
Cheese pizza
Chocolate cake
How the sun seeps through the clouds
At the moment of daybreak
Big dreams
Old friends
The relief and celebration
When the working week ends
Not much
It’s true
Just a little longer with me
And a little longer with you

The Little Things

Toyah fiddled with the bracelet wrapped around her wrist. It was a thin, plastic bracelet formed of interconnecting rings of different neon colours. She smiled, thinking back to the day she had bought it for a daft price in a bar in Malta.

Ginny watched her with her top lip curled upwards in distaste. She adjusted her designer handbag with a hand decorated in shimmering rings.

‘What do you wear that?’ she asked. Toyah looked up from the bracelet as though she had forgotten that anybody else was there.

‘It reminds me of good times,’ she replied.

‘It’s tacky, though. Why don’t you get rid of it? There’s some great silver on the market right now. You could upgrade – a lot.’

Toyah shrugged her shoulders. ‘Wouldn’t be the same,’ she said. ‘It’s the little things that matter, you know?’

Ginny didn’t know at all, and Toyah didn’t need to hear her say it to know it was true. She slipped the sleeve of her jacket down, covering the plastic bracelet so that it was out of sight.

‘Shall we go?’ Toyah said, quick to change the subject where her sense of style – or lack of style – was concerned.

The look on Ginny’s face told Toyah that she wasn’t fooled, but she dropped the subject all the same.

The Little House on the Top of the Hill

There was a little house on the top of the hill. Nobody knew how long it had been there. Normally, they ignored it, but sometimes at night when the regulars left the pub, stumbling home to their beds, they stopped and looked at the little house on the top of the hill.

And they wondered what it was all about.

The house was broken down, abandoned, and none of them could ever remember anybody living in it. They had no idea who owned it, either. Some of the windows were smashed, whether from the harsh winds that blew past or stones thrown by generations of local kids. Plants had grown up the sides of the house and taken over the walls for their own ends. The paintwork on the door was faded and peeling, and the name could no longer be read. There were nests on the roof, in the places where it had not fallen in.

The regulars, free from the constraints of everyday issues in their intoxicated state, wondered who the invisible builder was; who the missing occupant was; who the uncaring owner was. They thought about how sad the little house on the top of the hill looked, and then they started stumbling again on their journeys back to their own homes.

They unlocked their handsome front doors, walked into their tidy houses, and climbed into their comfortable beds.

And each regular, as they drifted off to sleep, wondered what they were all about. Like the little house on the top of the hill, abandoned and falling apart, they thought about their own invisible creator, and felt a pang of sympathy for the little house on the top of the hill.

The World Revolves Around Us

Princess cannot
Touch the sky
Her eyes twinkle
As she tries
Shimmering with
The tears she cries

Forgets the world
Beneath her feet
There must be
Someone new to meet
A prince out there:
Together, complete

But there are
Many other things
Than pricey pearls
And shiny rings
And dreaming up
Her princess wings

Still nothing seems
To satisfy
Always she reaches
For the sky
As others plead
And starve and die

In Plain Sight

My window faces the street
Always busy, people rushing
Past without a glance at
The face behind the dusty glass

Do you see me here? I see
The world passing me by,
But always I am hidden
In plain sight, behind the glass

Perhaps some think I am only
Their reflection, and continue
On their way, not bothering
To turn and look at me

I build my window on the street
To see the world around me
But these sheets of glass just hold me back –
Isolated in my window world