Fay de Way

Fay de Way. pic for poem

 

she sat amid

the hot, fast breath

of escaping beauty

adoring her own brazen image

in lights and a mirror

that would soon forget her

 

the punters in their prowl of seats

alert to form and hungry in

the animal kingdom

just out of sight of the bait

shortly to be released into

a wilderness of unspent desire

 

then on to another gig

a pole, a stage and hungry eyes

leering at the inflation of flesh

in the loan to value contract exacted

as they gather in the cash

for moonlight and velvet

 

the hunters swoon

and track back to the bar

order in another libation

for another excuse to loosen

the conventions that exist

in that particular safari park

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

Go lightly

Go lightly. poem.pic.

 

buried deep

fingers weave and leave

traces of the suffered

the lost and the all too painful

 

they knead and pummel

vibrate with a conscience

so insistent that patterns emerge

behaviours begin to inhabit

 

the soul

so much that we are simply

hosts to feeling –

the carriers of sin

 

but

the kindly magistrate of truth

will spin a yarn and let me off

wrapped around in ragged lies

 

the cloak of shame so dismal

evoking sewers and silent movies

all black & white – so noir

he’ll lift the veil and laugh

 

a sentence in a swarm of words

all dazzle and blame

will coalesce and rinse themselves because

we all deserve a pardon

A letter home

A letter home. pic

 

time passing

opaque

like a shroud

we can see it move

it shimmers with

an echo of our transgressions

precious but not forgiving

and without the generosity of a smile

 

I am trapped by nostalgia

the faded warmth of remembered thoughts

where-in the past has forgotten

the marching band of

acolytes goose-stepping forward

and left in a mould marked melancholy

where future movement

has lost its traction

and left me smooth

as a tiny beach stone

eyeing the braying tide

On Sunday

On Sunday. pic

 

a silhouette, misty cut

in darkness out of light

on the shelf, is night

 

and from the flat body

withholding dreams

eyes see

 

that no star

is a vision beyond recorded light

but the diamond black shine

 

where pinkness

pervades the window pane

making chilly contours

 

in the swollen, gifted glass

that reminds departing souls

that night can hold fire

 

as it descends  slowly below

eyelashes and lids surrendering

to shadows and sleep

for us

 

for us. pic for poem

for us

a sea rises beneath the ice

in a rasping wet friction of sounds

breathing below the crust

as the sounds of aeons squealing, mingling

in secrets and trysts, murders and

quiet kindnesses

all enslaved to a kingdom in limbo

in search of the mystery above

 

for us

they face one another disoriented

by nature and climate as it circles

the globe

and we, adoptive custodians,  tinker

at the fringes like alchemists

stirring the oceans and gazing

at swirling accretions of plastic

in trapped oceanic pockets

 

for us

extinction will be the longest full-stop

a foretelling of the blindness that holds

the hands of self-harm

we are so insistent, so superior, so deaf

to the echoes of poetry that wails

in the souls of those who have been long gone

but still ache with the loss that is

their knowledge, their lost and floating ethereal gifts

for us

Nowhere man

 

Nowhere man. pic for poem

 

a vagrant slouches in the doorway

like a bee fallen softly into apathy

and he glances at a waste bin with shallow contempt

for its dismal offerings and the fanfare of flies

that guard the lurid bounty of spent purchases

so casually tossed away

 

lunch-time in the metropolis and the big game

stroll oblivious to those who lie wounded

their hours of need yawning into a squeezed frame

as his eyes focus on something far away

beyond all this unpleasantness,  just like the bee,

quiet before the fall into a long silence