Beetles

One small boy climbed into an envelope
thinking he would not be noticed
thinking he would be safe.
He took a torch in with him
to ward off beetles
And a magnet
so he could attach himself
if the need should arise.
He was not a devious boy
And knew that trespassing could have consequences
But life outside the envelope
had worn little holes in the small boy’s soul
And as he posted himself
he felt only a sense of relief.

Sparrows

A group of children, accompanied by their teachers, waits outside Saint Thomas’s church, eating biscuits and chatting. The church is due to open at 4pm, but the huge wooden doors remain locked. The RE teacher, a big man wearing a black shirt, makes a phone call, shrugs, and eventually guides his congregation away from the church, the sound of merriment receding into the dusty afternoon.

Sparrows peck for hope
at Thomas’s sandalled feet:
finding only dust,
they gather its providence
and fly heavenward.

Dandelion

My choice to speak and dare to do
I share with other people too,
my own convictions – foul or fair
are seeds propelled in gifted air.

But even if my thoughts seem fixed,
with time or conversation mixed
they may be tempered, tinkered, turned
by what I heard, saw, did or learned.

So in my darkest/finest hours
when often I express my flowers
it is of boldness I partake
and I must know the mark I make.

Walk in the Dark

Something lumpily is squeezing down my windpipe,
Something drippily is lipidicing life,
Something clumpily is clogging up my childhood,
Something slippily is causing me some strife.

A boil erupted on the face of my acceptance,
I am hampered by the truth we hid so well,
Walking evidence we couldn’t really trust them,
I am cankered by the tales we couldn’t tell.

Vote

Scritch, scritch, scratch,
there I am again
teetering
on the edge of sleep
clutching a ball point
oh Elpis
I left a message for you on a slip
inside Pundora’s box
folded inside disturbed sleep
these desperate disordered times
are too many sheep for me to count
jumping

running

 fumbling in the gloom.

Scritch, scritch, scratch,
quickly, lock me in
and I will vote for you in the morning
my children
none of them have tails
perhaps we will never be well again
docked
writing nonsenses
criss cross
dressing hurriedly
dashing in our hither thither
setting our souls on tenterhooks…

Gale

When this feisty wind blows, how is it?
Will our bonds fall? Our stays loosen?
Will our breath slow? Our fists open?

For sure, our bonds will not fall, nor stays loosen,
nor our breath will slow, nor fists will open.

We must pitch our tent then, tied and tethered?
We must build our base then, trussed and trammelled?

Ah, but unpinioned thought will out and grasp the gale,
shaking the land-lashed by the ears,
unleashing us, in all honesty, blow by whipping blow.

The Spirit of Accord

Conjoined by circumstance, we were as twins,

collective fate upon respective dials;

you docked your pirate ship inside my lines

and blocked me with uncompromising sails.

.

To square the round we drew our swords to fight,

inflicting wrath on anchored minds with spears;

decisions ground with sharp wit edged with spite,

in altercation boxed the other’s ears.

.

In case you tried to sail I slung my stones,

and what I strove to build you ran to spoil;

you flared your nostrils, stamped upon my bones,

I danced on pins to pitch my burning oil.

.

You curdled coffee with your sour grapes,

my rancid comments rattled down our time;

but now you’re gone I miss our fierce debates,

it seems as though your voice was also mine.

i will be I

I last performed a hearty hub

to background sounds of a country pub,

those noisy vets, yet how I roared,

my stance so solid and assured.

My voice was neither fast or shy,

for two whole hours i was truly I.

..

But where were you that dauntless night?

Hunkered low in pain or fright?

Holed up in trouble, clothed in fear?

The mirror twists and you appear.

.

And so we two performed as one,

for loathing will not silence song,

beaten low  – as silver snakes,

thrown – soaring birds, or what it takes.

.

Work with me in meditation,

hear my voice in contemplation;

we’ll rise and leap and crest and fly,

til you are You and i am I.

The Sound of Guns

Parricide is not pretty,

but in a time of swallowed splinters,

there emerges a new confidence,

and no one is safe from

the absolute certainty of the Crack.

.

When anger is awake and ungoverned

the Almighty Metal Guru draws near to tease.

The wheel turns as young wreakers and hoakers,

already tucking boredom in their belts,

dash through familial barriers

straight into the Crack’s improbable deathhole.

.

Suddenly, we are all prey:

heavy weights flailing and falling

past previously pitted lives

towards our own bloody demise.

.

Unable to climb smooth surfaces

society begins to fester,

scraping the walls with botulinal nails;

kicking itself with blister boots.

.

Oh, those ugly days of lost heritage;

elders supping tears together, whilst

so many futures are crossed

by the star thin silver reticle

of the Almighty Crack.