Social media

Social Media.Pic for poem.

 

the words are launched – misnomers mostly – on spinning plates

like they do in Greek restaurants

and they tangle, mid-air with other meals

other dishes full of bile – it’s an untidy place

this sphere of conflict – a perturbation of opinions

mostly half-formed, ill thought through and charged

by a sense of injustice or perceived harm

that,  once thrown, gains mystic powers

able to thwart, injure and take down

opposition – that key ingredient to unreasonable debate

the gunner in his or her emplacement

no doubt a sordid place, takes aim –

all the consonants, vowels, misspellings and dodgy grammar

compressed into a shell at the behest of a mouse, no less

the launch painless, the load diminishing, it’s half-life

unravelling like a stricken isotope

and then it’s done – the thrill is gone until

another spot of bother bubbles away on the back burner

with more irritations adventuring toward a critical mass

now the heat is on

press send – retire and look for likes

Ha

Ha. pic for poem

 

 

 

I look at me

with my ego smeared

the shared history between my eyes

in that smudge on glass that was once

hot

breathing shallow now, the heat

on simmer

where once it bubbled I am confronted

with a lurk

a knowing look – maladroit

that has replaced the complacent years

where all that milk and honey was spent

what I imagine now

is the drool

overlapping and seeping – cruel

my vanity exposed – my fate

made me look, made me stare

a childish dare and then a prank

gone sour

cracked vision on the wall

tired of taunts

I’m going to embark on a course

of self-improvement – nutrients

make me look, make me stare

a childish response, vanishing in thin air

Ha

Pillow talk

Pillow talk . pic for poem

 

that young man still visits me

in dreams and the haunts of insecurity

wherein I am needy and fearful and seek

a hand to take me, a gesture to reassure

that there is a safe place out there

where I will not be mocked or measured

and made to cry

the ghost of my father’s taunts

are the lingering death rattles of his demons

unleashed again to dominate and destabilise the line

my hapless chromosomes, the links and nerves

of my cradled brain all set to fuse –

how incredible that I am saddled

even as my own light goes dim

with the furies my father deliberately laid down

so today I fight to be complete and rummage

in the box of my component parts – looking

hoping to find a ‘peace’ of sorts

and hand it down to my own sons

another hospital visit

Another hospital visit. pic

 

love lies bleeding

yes, I’ve said that before

but the internal wounds

they slice at hope

shape misery, that growing thing

as it mutates – a lava lamp of swelling gloom

wherein light casts little

by way of illumination

and all the little things

others may say and try to do

amount to nought

because inside thoughts collide

with doom – an intractable slide away

into an awful fairground

where light and noise crackle and spit

dodgems bump, grind

internal organs slither

and laughter once evoked by the ride

inverts and spills

lays down a tear

reflected in psychedelic light

blood red

a premonition in an anti-septic room

before the lights go out

James

James and I. Collage 2019

 

a day looms in the near future

laden with unknown fears

it is, or it could be, a turning point

a signal, a way point. Certainly it marks

a departure

of our red-haired son with his given name

into the company of other men

other souls who seek solace in extremity

who will bawl his name and push him

to limits we, his parents, never could, never would

and in those moments of strain

where God may not be found but God invoked

this boy, this man, our progeny

will know that our love will not desert him

in that liminal state he finds between his youth and his future

and will he know what I have learnt

that he is powerless, yet as a child of love

he carries us, our love, our future seeds

and he is goodness if he so chooses

Bardroom banter

 

I'm empty

the poet’s gross conceit

that all things can be known

everything reduced to pity

in their grand strokes

the ineluctable, the inviolable

made naked

by inspiration

but I believe

as all failed poets do

that ghosts know more

and men in cloistered cells

with only silence

and chants to break the mood

glimpse gifts

that sentient men

must miss

and so at times I long

for my last breath

and a glimpse at the noble

in silence

Offerings

Offerings

 

I know a little, not a lot

but I can lay words at your feet

and hope that you will let them in

nourish them and give them shape

in those long strides we take

in hope, in friendship and shared trust

so that in the fullness of time

we too may become united

in the soft transfer of a love that speaks

so quietly that if we travel in haste

we may damage it in the slipstream of self interest –

that selfish gene that threatens to deny

all the gifts we care to give