Biography of Stevie Taite
I am just starting out. I write for me mostly (I think way too much and this serves as an outlet for my very busy mind) . It is fun to share to see if anyone gets anything from them, like a sparked memory, a giggle or some sort of connection. They are nothing amazing, compared to many on here! But I enjoy writing them and to me, that is all that should really matter. X
- King Henry's Roast Pig -new-
Stevie Taite Poems
The Making Of The Moon
The moon was born with Earth they say Two vortex, large and small Of gas and dusty nebula And gravitation's pull
Drunk And Disorganised
I tried to write a poem whilst drunk I thunk and I thunk which is hard when you're drunk
A Lesson On Poetry From My Five Year Old
I sat in bed one morning With a note pad on my knee When in wondered my Charlie And he snuggled up to me
Autumn 's Waking Mutants!
When Autumn knocks and hangs his leafy coat up by the door Drifting slowly in and leaving footprints on the floor He drags along behind him his dormant pathogens The central heating shakes them and their Summer slumber ends
Showing My Bladder Who's Boss!
Oh what an annoyance It happens to be When my bladder, at night Wakes me up for a wee
Some poems are simplistic They don't wear cryptic lipstick They never try to force it
Mirror mirror You tell lies Who put crows feet Round my eyes?
Grandma Round For Tea
'Lets eat, grandma! 'Said the man with a grin. He squeezed her bony hand in despair 'I know what I fancy for dinner today' They peered inside, all the cupboard was bare
One Last Coffee
Meet me for this one last coffee So we can kiss our last goodbyes Sit close and be as awkward as me (one more look into your eyes)
She Wants To Swim
She wants to swim I feel her pulling at my surface In her cage, stirring The waters lap to torment her chagrin
Your muse is a starfish in midnights' ocean She lives deep, embedded in your soul In tired agitation you tore off her arms Knowing full well that they would regrow
On Your Pillow
On your pillow Indent made Shower running There I laid
Castrate The Crayon
Stalking in the shadow of syllables Drooling at the curves of translucent lines Slipping your warped finger under the hem of stanza You transverberate through every victims creation
Floccinaucinihilipilification floc-ci-nau-ci-ni-hi-li-pi-li-fi-ca-tion. (breathe) On last count it has 12 syllables, I do believe
King Henry's Roast Pig
King Henry's roast pig.
'This orange tastes like pigs crap'
Our brows concertinaed. Our jaws hung
The tooth pierced sack of offending pap
Was spat in the bin, and her sleeve scoured her tongue
I eye balled the black marble breakfast bar
Sort of embarrassed yet slightly amused