Gladsomeness is Tuesday afternoons. It is a pint of 3.9% ale. It is you sitting on the pub booth on the left. Gladsomeness is a packet of Mini Cheddars you never shared and the names of your favourite Scottish football players I’ve never heard of. Gladsomeness is your too loud ring tone. It is your zimmer frame bashing into the toilet door. It is the crisp, brown paper bag protecting your pork pie. Gladsomeness is your crossword. It is your hatred of the England cricket team. It is your whispered love of poetry. Gladsomeness is every Tuesday afternoon I’m lucky to still have to think about you and a pint of 3.9% ale.

Carl Burkitt 2025

I didn’t even watch
the clouds taking a day off
from collecting rain
or the squirrel eating the nut
it couldn’t be bothered to hide
or the leaves relieved
the wind was busy elsewhere
or the dog letting mud just dry
on its paws waiting for it
to get bored and fall off on its own
or the river sitting still
or the grass not worrying
about footballs or feet or bikes
or however this poem should end.

Carl Burkitt 2025

I purchased
a 10-metre long
outdoor extension cable
and heard the souls
of every deceased male
ancestor of mine roar,
“Welcome, boy,
to the club of boring men”.

Carl Burkitt 2025

I see you in the subtle scratches
in my arms after a day of working with tools,
the lumps of chocolate digestive
at the bottom of my thick breakfast tea
resting on a pile of bricks.
A sledgehammer feels right in my hands
because of you. I feel safe
breaking things into a million pieces,
watching my wife bake a broccoli quiche
through the kitchen window.

Carl Burkitt 2025

Spider-Man is pulling weeds out
of the ground. He’s been pottering
round the garden all morning
using his otherworldly strength
to pick dandelions for his Nana’s tortoise
in between falling down on his trampoline,
missing penalties in open goals,
giving names to sunflower seeds.
The sun has been kind to him today
and his giggle is out singing the birds,
let alone hiding the dread
that he might soon need a wee and doesn’t know
how to take his all-in-one suit off by himself.

Carl Burkitt 2025

your Spider-Man pyjamas
your strawberry cheekbones
your bucket of secondhand cars
your pronunciation of ‘cimena’
your bones built from bouncebackability
your tomato-consumption
your airplane arms
your train track mind
your desperate urge to see magic
your powerful, tiny shoulders
your need for mud
your soft rabbit’s undying loyalty

Carl Burkitt 2025

Imagine I’m a piece of A4 paper. Please. Scrunch me up into the shape of a crispy snowball and lob me into the bin in the corner of the room. If it misses and hits the floor, that’s fine, but just leave me wherever I land. Let the sun from the window dry me out and fade a bit. Don’t be afraid to chuck apple cores or scrape the leftovers of your scrambled egg in the bin with me. It’s important I get used to the rotting process. I’ll be OK not talking to anyone and quickly feel at home getting lost in the darkness. In a few months time though, scoop me out unexpectedly. Flick off the dirt. Iron me out. Pop a crime drama on the telly and let’s open a tub of salt and vinegar Pringles. 

Carl Burkitt 2025

I think about how you have to grow up
and all the social media accounts that tell me
the greatest gift I can give you is
the confidence of independence
and the power to fly as far as you like.
But the selfish child in me knows
the day you swap your arms for wings
is the day you’ll never hold my hand again.

Carl Burkitt 2025

The Collywobbles live in a house made out of first dates, on a street called Job Interview. They are a quiet family. Keith Collywobble eats big decisions on toast for breakfast every morning with a mug of exams and other people’s expectations. Kelly Collywobble works in a factory that makes financial troubles and the judgement from others. Their kids, Karen and Kyle, go to Attending A Funeral High School in the village of Feeling Unprepared. The Collywobbles sleep on beds of bad news and dream outside of their comfort zone. They are a quiet family.

Carl Burkitt 2025

but you whisper swear words
like a sniper with a silencer in front of our son.
The vein on your neck is a burning candle
atop the birthday cake of the day we first met
whenever strangers cut you up.
Your car horn sings hymns of forgiveness.
Your headlights blink
Morse code for, ‘We all make mistakes’.

Carl Burkitt 2025