Shut eye

Shut eye. pic

 

I am not charmed by the mocking essence

in my dreams

how they tear the lids from the innocent viscosity

of my eyes

and wake me with words that appear to be squeezed

through an aperture of hope that was obviously closed down

aeons ago

is it shame?

is it grief?

that so much loss should pine in my waking head and

churn about and be perplexed by loss and hurt that will

it seems

forever dance in a sensual act of disentanglement

so I languish in this morbid state and hope

for a cessation of the wagging fingers that follow me

Conscience

Conscience

 

I am a soldier in a covert war

Everything about me is nondescript

And I travel mostly under cover of dark

When the horrors are worst

And my ignorance at its’ height

Because the night time

Is my camouflage

When manoeuvres are across enemy lines

That often stretch beyond my ken

And victory, should I wish it

Is mine

But as this well intentioned vigilante

Wages retribution on your behalf

The real wars progress

Atrocities that fuel these dreams

Play out amongst the protagonists

And wounds that fester

Lives that are lost

Go unremarked at day-break

When Private Me awakes

A Pause

A PauseStruggling for words

How so? My silent friends

Those vowels and verbs

Stitches in the fabric

Of my magic cloak

 

They are quiet

Prisoners behind tight lips

Constrained to silence

Too timid to express

Fragrant air

 

I dare not let them rest

For superstition suggests

That they will languish

In some retirement home

Beyond my control

 

My best intentions are misguided

I should let them float

And settle like jewels in snow

For all the beauty wrapped in silken tones

Is bound to be free of me

Father Thames

Father ThamesFather Thames

 

Percussion of slips from the big grey sky

Taps with mocking feet on glass

A snide whisper of wind ushers them along

Putting a wash upon their beat

 

Beyond the obscurity of wet glass

Flood waters still rise

We, not more than half a mile from the front line

Mark time and slink along the tarmacadamed borders

 

Watch the swollen, racing River Thames

Slice portions of gardens from the bank

Twist restraining ropes and sever possessions

From their aching ties

 

Tragedy is an unworthy spectator sport

For those that are poorly moored

Are sucked below the wet horizon

And sulk, tethered, stolen dreams

 

As rain continues to dance on our restraints

The final frontier is more desperate

More crude. Sand bags

To hold back the tide?