Stones

He brought down the axe
on those prehistoric stones
that had regally edged his flower bed
public and permanent
undisputed leave to rule granted,
planted, for centuries.

Meaning to smash those stones,
dash them down to size
despising their indestructible
smooth confidence, since
his lay shattered,
he refused to be thwarted by disease,
disappointment and a blunt axe.

Raising his game he brought to bear
great anger and frustration,
torn muscles and brittle bones
screaming, tears streaming in rivers
past slivers of stone,
whilst they remained, undiminished
taking pain without complaint.

Wheel

Go! Grab my hand as round they spin our wheel
and clasp my elbow, squeeze until we know
what grit and raw humanity reveal.

Move desperate lips and look at me and shout
so we can hear above the grinding cogs
come, let the depth of our intention out.

There’s more to this than meets the eye: we fed
those queues to throw our pretty lives away
and now our day is spun with puny thread.

Don’t stand in line, capped, waiting to be real
this wheel will never cease, but we can find
what grit and raw humanity reveal.

Finger Exercise

Ten fingers strive to exercise a mundane task,
enslaved by hands, their jealous masters, clasping fast
till aching knuckles buckle to the bracelet of the day.

You’d guess they’d ask (above the crack of whip) how so
that they who long to dance, are pinioned tight and must
suspend their joy for subsistence, impinged by stress.

But never did these fingers speak; suffice to know
how noble words and careful deeds and soulful breath
held checked, cut in to scintillate with dazzling display.