Poor David

November 25, 2018 at 9:32 pm (Poems) (, , )

She knew him as a photograph
A poster on the wall
She had a suitcase full of him
But never knew it all

She didn’t go to stadia
To squeal with all the rest
Because she quietly supposed
He always loved her best.

The magazines presented him
With silky hair and smile
That promised her the moon and back
And stayed there for a while.

Poor David was a superstar
Who sang to her alone
But never came down from the wall
To call his very own.

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Watermark

November 23, 2018 at 1:18 pm (Poems) (, , )

It’s funny how our lives will weave
a pattern which we can’t conceive
of when we try to plan a route
from A to B. So what’s afoot?
Relax your eyes and look again
and you will see another frame
existing but so nearly not
it’s hard to know the path it plots
but trust its steady head and heart
To guide your hand as you depart.

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Mole

October 6, 2018 at 8:47 pm (Poems) (, , , )

  • The mole so blindly pushes dirt
  • To find the light. And oh, it hurt
  • To stand in darkness and in fear
  • Of losing heart: to be unclear
  • Of where to dig and plant my soul
  • I need a place to be a mole.

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Discord Descort

September 29, 2018 at 7:54 am (Poems) (, , , , )

When nothing sits pretty; all thoughts in disarray
angry clouds alter barometers.
I am a fishcake, plucked from your plastic sea
You hold me remotely and nevertheless I dance for you.

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Sad Cafe

September 28, 2018 at 12:43 pm (Poems) (, , , , , )

My grieving is baked
in your pretty fairy cakes
and sold for a pound.

Make me a coffee
and I will pretend to smile,
but this is hurting.

Those angels know me,
(we share a chocolate cake)
And, for now, are gone.

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Tessellation

September 26, 2018 at 6:57 pm (Poems) (, )

Pieces may correlate in various ways.
It is not guaranteed,
nor should we be surprised
when salt runs out without solution.
What is this trickery,
providing multiple possibilities
in a limited time frame?
How many chances before they shut us down?

So legs wrapped round a nice warm belly,
arms entwined or lips pressed near,
expression of a kind intention
might suffice to hold us here.

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Nights

September 25, 2018 at 4:45 pm (Poems) (, , )

True strangeity of it:
returning at first light
through a world you vacated
a few hours ago, when it was elderly.

Morning, like the birth of spring,
expects youth and eagerness;
I am the eye of a kaleidoscope:
defiled by tiredness,
exhilarated by freedom,
grateful for the short journey home.

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Windows

September 22, 2018 at 11:04 pm (Poems) (, )

We were together, in a house,
with inopportune windows,
They showed us only our errors,
encapsulated in nuclear snow.

One by one we succumbed
by various means, to it,
some of us simply walked outside.
– Not even a predicament.

Unpleasant though they sometimes are,
dreams are sent with reason,
and once I have figured this,
I’ll surely be empowered.

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Acorns

September 10, 2018 at 9:20 pm (Poems) (, , )

In the moving gloom we saw
snatches of some lost secret
snagged by a twig. There was
a snapping and a hissing
and the hunting cry of an owl.

Ay ay ay, we should never
have been so deep in that place
where the past is buried in
leaf litter and fleshless lips.
Alas, we were carried by
squirrels in their game of chase.

Dropped in a pokey hole,
we stay still as bones,
and wait for destiny.

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Apron

September 5, 2018 at 11:45 am (Poems) (, , , , , , , )

Your aproned neighbour is never far from the wall, her jam jar a convenient ear piece. But her ready mouth remains shut against ancient screams as your door makes its ungainly departure from bent hinges.

Your world of perfect safety, easyspeak politics and righteous well-being crash around you as they come, they come. With guns and knives they arrive,
as they always will.

And in that brief moment you wish,
not for your own salvation,
But for the peace of mind, in adversity,
Of having acted in accordance
with morality. Not in compliance,
but more difficult -.dissent.

With truncheons they break your tranquility,
and still protesting unerring loyalty
you are herded, herded into a metal
truck. Here she is, your neighbour, too, apron torn and dirty, still clutching her jam jar,
white fear bubbling at her lips.

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