scraps

Scraps. Poem photograph

 

They never fall

those spots of reason

on flesh drawn tight, in retreat, braying

hauled about and withered

by fears stacked up

and shrieking at, no other way

because there was

no other way, not for them

not then behind their bared teeth

 

but now a rush of rust on metal, it’s scalding heat,

illuminating those screech marks of decay

like time, bold on the eaten substance whose texture

might render beauty to a mind

so bidden

but,

lassitude allows mould

to fret and gather over

those dull accomplishments

and the question of;

what is this ache, this cause?

that infects the colour blue

that famous state

folk hero hue

that is an attitude of mind gone flaky with

an intimate knowledge

belonging to more than just the few.

 joined by other colours and stripes

like red and yellow, their snipers blazing

indignant, implacable; a virus rising behind immunity

our politicians so adept at leaving

 

scraps

always scraps

that in the end

are left

in view

and reason that escapes

all of them in that milieu

bad, bad words

bad, bad words. pic

 

I can’t contain my words

they are feral

and when I go out

they let me down

bad cats and dogs and birds

bad, bad words

you know, I once saw a man taking a parrot out for a walk

it perched on his shoulder attentively

looking at him with its sharp beak poised

and I wondered if it ever bit him

for the impertinence of taking  it out unfettered

attached to his shoulder so somehow – owned

the wild bird in its native forest – exotic

would protest,  preferring not to be tame

bad, bad words

they grow into characters, they assume persona’s

I glimpse them as they frolic

I know them as they choke

a gale of consonants and vowels

incipient sounds like weather on the make

puddles of confusion – a mosaic of mistakes

I should have stopped to take a picture of that man

with that parrot on his shoulder so full of withheld

bad, bad words

and now my mouth is full of ammunition for another day

goodbye Michael

goodbye Michael. pic

 

her voice stretched by emptiness

she simply said;

” I thought you should know Michael passed away today”

he chose a Sunday to go into permanence

and leave his wife and family on the day of rest

today marks the Autumn Equinox, two equal halves of light and shade

one teardrop hangs and waits for gravity to be the judge

our parliament  in tatters, the country in turmoil

and as we read the news

one can’t help but feel that though his mind was in decline

he chose his moment well.

we make the noise

we make the noise. pic

 

a marquee on the lawn in bright autumn sunshine

gathers into its celebratory space a host of opinionated people

the squeezed earth a silent witness to this intrusion

where gossip and mirth are part of the fairytale

on these occasions we must bless one another and bask

in the shared luxury of a gilded cage

but a shadow is cast, drawn like a membrane

that renders ghostly figures to dance on canvas

like puppets and marionettes in fields of smoke

whose backdrop in truth is rubble and ruin

the desolation of being lost on one’s own soil

and being hated for simply surviving

so my thoughts meander as I smile in this cocoon

unsettled on behalf of defenceless souls in war zones

as all around me lips pucker with effrontery at the injustice

they perceive in their gilded orbits

of barriers to carefree lives

flailing

Flaining. a pic

 

like a Speaker in The House

groping for words – for Order, Order

and spluttering in the midst of so many chosen  mots justes

falling to ground

the scrapings of wisdom in those passionate arguments

that swirl around him

are dusted with the aroma of salt and phlegm

with so much indignation swelling on waves of righteousness

even the buttoned leather upholstery is self-regarding

as it harbours safe seats

whose members have much to say

their propaganda bleaching the very enamel from teeth

 bared to make the most of emphasis

as they ride on the beast of persuasion insisting

that possession is nine tenths of the law

all of them,  frayed ayes and frayed not’s

Right Honourable Friends

sweeping the floor, divining in the dust

for what to make of history

In sufferance

sear suitable for both sides of a debate.1

 

a man lounges across a seat

his entitlement there for all to see

the langour so natural

bred from a line that seeks only

to suborne the common man

and in that cameo his cause may be lost

to an epic mistake

exposed by a yawn with his class etched

on a bench that history will detest

the moment noted as he would have it;

“mark my words”

and all the screaming echoes of derision go

to the wind and hound him

forever more

forever less

in the face of the common man who knows irony

as we are all embroiled in the fate

of  Europe’s union of nation states