Tuesday, 4 December 2018
Friday, 30 November 2018
She scowls an ugly scowl at him.
He is the enemy knocking at the door.
He's a fraudster. A scrounger. A cheat.
He's work-shy. Good-for-nothing. Lazy.
She takes his name, rank and NI number.
Then programs him into the computer.
She scours the screen intensely.
Here is his life, in all its inglorious detail.
Her rudeness is unabashed.
(He's the enemy. Remember?)
The robotic spiel begins.
It's devoid of sympathy or charm.
He has wound this machine up.
He's warned and warned again.
Do this, and that will happen.
Do that, and this will happen.
His head swirls.
His brain shuts down.
But he can still see her lips move...
Her scowl is now absurd.
Day after day she sits there, reciting these lines.
No wonder he thinks she's a bitch.
Monday, 26 November 2018
High above, the curlew swam in big blue’s deep cool.
Then, with its spec of sound
(A cry that cut the air and chiseled the heart),
It sank deeper into the deep.
Its cry pointed, sharply, at all the solitary souls
In the land’s own solitude.
The tearful, tearing song dripped its grief on heather.
It echoed and echoed in the walkers’ tabula rasa minds.
Saying: Leave us! Leave us alone!
This is not your land.
Find your own place to wander.
This province is sacred to us.
To ourselves alone.
We’ve sailed this land for more centuries than you’ll ever know.
Thursday, 15 November 2018
Behind the summer trees,
The abbey sulked in the distant haze.
A tiny woman he dared not touch
(Not even with voice or eye)
Played cricket in the breeze.
A coward who hid behind sarcastic words.
He dared not speak in vain,
Nor even hint the same.
And even when he talked,
He sacrificed the thought
That remained unsaid, again.
By the Wharf that stomped like a liquid troop,
He stared hard into the river
To find, again, his lost chances.
To hear answers only a mute could give.
It reflected back the game he needed to play.
The price he had to pay.
As if that was a beginning.
Tuesday, 6 November 2018
I walk in the dying landscape;
Where Autumn has taken the leaves.
And those left, hang curled and crisp,
Waiting for the wind’s endgame.
I walk the lanes of the later days.
When ramblers have called time on their walking-year.
The lanes are mine.
I rule them with my boots.
I rule them with fierce strides,
Which conquer each crossed yard.
But sugared memories glut my striding mind.
Even days just gone are dressed in a sentiment.
All my yesterdays are painted in garish colours.
In these late days, not all the leaves are dead-fallen.
Some still hang on to branches grown too familiar.
Slow-death remembrance grows into old flesh -
So not to deny its last goodbye.
Leaves hold-on till Dear Me blows its killing breath
To get rid of the nonsense
Still refusing at the mind’s drain.
One final flush into pure nothingness.
Yet the silly leaves still cry No! to their own extinction.
Lightly, spores float on a breeze around the damp room.
At will, they take root on the leprous walls.
There they sprout ears thirsty for the soggy air.
Each time these squatters plaster the walls with their tan flesh,
They’re simply laying down the landlord’s Damp Law.
Tuesday, 23 October 2018
Rather than pass on my genes,
I hope to pass on my poetic memes.
Yes, to Humanity and others too.
That way my Soul will live on
In the brains of poetry readers
Or those who prefer reviews
To the real thing.
Sure, it won't be much of a life -
That's because I'll be dead!
Yet my poetic memes
May still be alive
In the brains of poetry readers
Or those who prefer reviews.
And that's what counts...
The fuck it does!
The Ego which cares about this afterlife
Won't be alive in it.
That Ego will not be.
It will not exist.
So who gives a shit
About my poetic memes?...