Scraps

Scraps. Poem photograph

They never fall

those spots of reason

on flesh drawn tight, in retreat

hauled about and withered

by fears stacked up

and winking at, no other way

because there was

no other way

not then.

But now a rush of rust on metal

those screech marks of decay

like time, bold on the eaten substance

would render beauty to a mind

so bidden

But,

lassitude allows mould

to fret and gather over

those dull accomplishments

and the question of;

what is this ache?

inherits the colour blue

that famous state

folk hero hue

that is a piece of mind gone flaky

an intimate knowledge

belonging to more than just the few.

Scraps.

it is always scraps

that in the end

are left

in view.

Those Random Fields

Those Random Fields

Those random fields

 

The poppies. Luscious red on stalks

In patches. Risen because memory

And a reservoir of love

Deeply held, compels us to plant

The seeds of future hope

And to mark with a beautiful stain

Acknowledgement of desperate human wrongs

That random beauty

From guerrilla planting

We savages come across

And see a whisper

A visual clue

That one hundred years ago

The moans of men

Are not forgotten in soil

Where red remembers

Passion spent

Where sentries speak

That whispered lament

So. Softly go.

Commute

Commute

Commute

It is easy to follow convention

Travel a well worn path

And blend, inconspicuous into the flow

 

But the runt will feel a heavy hand

Upon his growing burden

To live in perpetual disagreement

 

For those who are normal

And float, unperturbed  by flaws

Will essay on through life

 

So the journeyman is bound

Like some casual make-weight

To endure the boredom of the commonplace

 

While gilded souls. Chosen ones

Float on the sumptuous presumption

That life is good

 

I can’t help but spare a thought

For someone, somewhere

In the rain or the heat. Desolate.

Skin

Skin

Skin 

We fashion beauty. We aesthetes

We are Olympians of taste

And make no mistake, when the money is good

No expense could be too crude

For the aristocrat of the senses

Whose pockets flap

Will exploit loose change to buy exotic metal

Shaped vehicles that are extreme

To sit proudly as ornaments of success

And that ‘trophy beauty’

The ultimate prize

Can be embraced, paraded and caged

For others to ogle and envy

But, there is one thing that spoils

And over time

Even expensive treatments will fail

When honesty is lost

And foundations slip

Even taught, sculpted lines will err,

Faults and fissures creep

And the mask?

Well it will speak

Mirror

Mirror

Mirror

 

Are there, tell me truth

Any not troubled by you

For even those blessed with youth

And ravishing

Have mental slips

And those higher-up, say famous

Can also succumb

Find frailty. Expose fear

Be wounded by an impartial stare

So, in your false frame

Is it vanity

That lingers over memory

Where pomp and circumstance

And all pride eventually

Is pricked

Hall of Mirrors

 

Hall of MirrorsDrawn as by duty down a line

Dropping. Scraping the sides of a dark nothing

Viscous. Imagination pulls

At the echo of a colour lost to reason

So into slime the journey churns

Where daylight may be an escape

But I am fascinated by the threat of malevolence

Wherein I,  the author and the victim

Ask why. Why not make this a parody

And set me in a circus of smiles,

Or rich guffaws

But not the gallery of screams that pop

From an arcade of paid for thrills

Why am I, even in my own head

An outsider with dread

Let me please enjoy a loosening of the coils

That seem to constrict my pleasure

Obscure my vision and bring me

Always to the edge of pain

Let me exchange with the man in the booth

Small change for folly and blind excitement

Not the never ending centrifuge of fear

That falls twisting as a mirror to fate