Damn

mikedohsays

damn

I see my grey hair in pictures with the family

and realise that I am already passing

into history

How long will it be until the smile fades to ash

and colours in the inks lose their vitality

Can that frame hold fast and keep the memory

or will indifference and fashion

make it hasten into a lost obscurity

Will it all by-pass photo-shop

with it’s technical brilliance,

the mastered pixel rendered and held

for heaven to view in the cloud

Perhaps I am destined to inhabit

the space that the picture frame

purports to keep in an enigmatic perpetuity.

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Damn

damn

I see my grey hair in pictures with the family

and realise that I am already passing

into history

How long will it be until the smile fades to ash

and colours in the inks lose their vitality

Can that frame hold fast and keep the memory

or will indifference and fashion

make it hasten into a lost obscurity

Will it all by-pass photo-shop

with it’s technical brilliance,

the mastered pixel rendered and held

for heaven to view in the cloud

Perhaps I am destined to inhabit

the space that the picture frame

purports to keep in an enigmatic perpetuity.

Damp Squib

 

damp-squib-pic-for-poem

Gyrating, sucked-in, in foul malevolent air

the bomb expands in creeping silence

across faces in the dark auditorium

A wasteland around the crater your words have formed

Instead of an eruption of friendly noise

and the scrape and friction of applause

only silence. And you,

spot-lit. Oozing gastric fear

Your smile fused in a rictus

of knowing this instant has changed

and lost meaning in a somersault

volte face

To bomb

Lights out. Thank-you

 Left desolate in the litter of scrapped thoughts

Alone. A ragged fragment.

Too many ‘I’s

too-many-is-pic

I was recently offered a seat on a tube

by a young woman with compassion in her heart,

no doubt

but my pride interpreted that as spite

and I refused

left hanging on a strap in mortal decline

and ever since, the scene, it’s implications

re-spooled

play back to me in a quiet yet insistent fugue

You vain ‘old’ fool is the sound-track

following me

trapped words in the carriage of my spoiled journey

A constant rattle and schism as I go about forgetting

that age has put his drape on me

that my vital signs are more evident

to others than to the being I recognize

I can no longer refer to myself in the third person,

casual, flippant or heroic

not now that I am transparent

at large in someone else’s order of magnitude.

I shall stand until I am forced

through stages

to lie down.