Expectant

Expectant. pic

I want more

That is my condition. My dread

I am the eager hunger

a lust of want on margins

imagined, never seen

Of echoes, shreds of neverbeens

dying coals and finite seams

that refuse to manifest.

Perhaps it is all pornography

it’s crooked lines on pure white paper

and stains on beauty where promises

were never kept.

What is left is a crust

of tears, wind-dried

a legacy that anthropologists will find

and with it kindly trace a history

from something

I never knew

How sad

How sad. pic

How sad

the ego clings to the fringes

of what is left

remembering in the pallid glow of reality

that the past was a better place

invested with the best of memories

still electric, still with the power to pull

old bones with their cloak of decaying cells

onto the back of an old motor bike

and ride, demented, without a helmet

into the wall of some past glories

How sad

that the epitaph may be spoiled

if the truth came out

that vanity was the ultimate fuel

and not a single prayer for peace

that split skin and blood

were attended to in the urgent blue

of flashing lights

and trained hands transferred the body

to a bed in a place that was

not home

How sad.

Unrest

Unrest. A poem

those waking dreams like scum, no

like napalm

 come, stripping me from sleep

I wonder if it is some kind (wrong word) of retribution

for past behaviours

or those that are still within.

The nomenclature of faith

that wrestles, by proxy, inside me

ill advised and ill informed

and thus

 powerful in a morbid way.

The furies in cloisters collude

to pull the sheets sharply across my eyes

and let livid colours settle

on daylight

like toxic chemicals in a sneer

ready to swirl and coalesce

in a dazzle on the surface

confirming all the worst weather reports

unsettling me here, on the shore

where I most want to be

still and calm.

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.

hook, line and thinker………..

hook-line-and-thinker-image-for-poem

A fish landed

out of sorts

and complained bitterly

for the lack of salt

and went on to deride the fisherman

for his clumsy boots

the cracked and melting ice

all the noise on the harbour side,

“for goodness sake, couldn’t you just reel me in?

Have some sport? Instead you come

riding the waves and suck me in

to a harvest of woe

and this indignity. To die

in plain sight in front of a man in white

who puts a price on me

and then, cold eyed, moves on

to appraise the rest of us.

If I could I would put a curse on you”

Later, over sweet tea the fisherman

quite satisfied, said to his wife

“it was a fine catch today”