Fault Lines

Fault Lines.jpg

Forever in the half light

held back by the hand of small

and always, yes always

feeling slight

yet heavy with this sense of loss

This burden like a trope

Afflicting types. My type

Leaving shadows on scenes

and spaces in lines of instruction

lingers on into my dotage

Passively disabling with irony

Where in my youth it was savage

incurring cold treasonous cuts

from an unsteady sense of self-esteem

And later, in my teens

the villains moved in as if

responding to a half-life

ignited by demons that clamoured

at an ill fitting door

I let myself go.

Everything

Everything

Poetry is the sound

The wind makes

As it circles your soul

And everything is second-hand

All of it spent air

Turned around and around

And we sit here

In the commonplace

Rinsing the air

And rubbing the threads

Of patterns worn down

Abraded by familiarity

Yet still we come

To gather round in spell-bound hope

Ready as ever to witness

To be in thrall

To absolutes

And know that we can find

In everything

A little of the new

Waves

Waves

A human tide rolls and recoils

At injustice, war and lies

And the innocents are tossed against

A changing, formless shore

Whose arbitrary rules discriminate

Divide and preside over misery

Inhabitants of safe havens

Hide behind the mast-heads

Of their propaganda and sensibilities

Unsure in their comfortable shoes

Just how to protect their own

Selfish hegemony

Whilst politicians, those arbiters of votes

Posture and pocket expenses and air-miles

On our behalf

All smart. Considered. Rhetorical.

Trusting to history

And missing irony

For these lives are being dashed

On confused tides

Ideologies that fumble

On cracked foundations

And leave a residue

Of misery that we struggle to hide

I am diminished by

My inactivity

Exposed by shallow thoughts

But truly feel

A sense of loss

That last escaping breath of hope.

Prize fighter

Prize fighter

Prize fighter

 

 

 

Everything suggests that I am late

The memory, the notes on soiled paper

Remorse and nagging doubt

 

My skin and my eyes. My hair

All indicate that things have changed

And I am shocked!

 

Picture books hold vestiges

Of my fading self

That I open now with caution

 

So where has the locomotion

Of all my life

Been hiding. In which siding?

 

For all the guides. Almanacs

The legends told

I am not familiar with them all

 

A shadow falls

Stooped in changing light

And fleetingly is all of me.