Words

Chain coiled

Chain coiled snakelike ,

now rusting remnant,

heavy and dust brown carpet,

unmoving, unmoved.

Light fallen shadow brightness as fingers unclenched,

Illusion of clarity as focus tenses,

tightening, tightened.

Industrial presence now industrial ghosts,

walk booted dockside granite grey,

spice scented,

tangible memory.

Wind moans ghostly

Wind moans ghostly,

as day fades slowly,

shadows creeping darker,

while flicker lights muster,

as moths make merry

risking all for the moon.

Rain drops ricochet,

from tiles bent over slaves’ legs.

amidst shimmering water in the street below,

nightfall cloaks

The face in the mirror

The face in the mirror looks back blankly at me,

questioning eyes scan my eyes and both pairs look confused.

I am not here before myself,

I am no more me than my reflection and in knowing that,

both of us are lost and scared.

This is some sort of dream, an illusion in wake state,

a ghost I can touch to be sure I am awake and I am,

I do,

we are.

The face in the mirror smiles and I do not recognise the humour though as I see it I smile too,

nervously doubtful,

ambiguously alien.

I turn to walk away and as I do,

I catch for a moment,

a tear in the mirror face,

a self left behind,

an older younger me saying goodbye.

On this day as much as any other

On this day as much as any other

The space between then and now is perfect

Its imperceptibility is comforting.

On this day as much as any other

I change unnoticeably,

move forward and leave a part of me behind

On this day as much as any other

The inevitability of life’s process

Sees another wrinkle form

as another memory adjusts its reality.

On this day as much as any other

I am at once older and yet still young

drifting but on course.

On this day as much as any other

I feel a passion for life

Which reminds me

I am more than alive.

Lost to describe the sheer wonderment of now.

On this day as much as any other

I will find silence enough to scream

For lost love,

The suffering of others,

The irony of truth.

On this day as much as any other

Everything that has led to this may pass

A lifetime of days may end and leave me cold

A memory fading into days as much like this as any other.

In the wind is the answer

In the wind is an answer,

swirling as it jumbles its words,

looking for an alternative narrative.

Carried and as yet unheard the answer seeks a question,

exploring conversation on this winter’s day.

Rushing, icy blast,

slips easily through woollen jumpers.

There in the warmth of someone's shared moment the answer catches a phrase out of place.

Reaching out to intervene the words tumble into order as they grasp a chance to perform.

As the moment settles and two fingers lift a cigarette towards waiting lips the answer finds it's time,

"it doesn't always have to end like this,

if we hold our breathe and close our eyes maybe truth will find us"

And in that release the words fall,

used,

exhausted and already disappearing as individual letters,

themselves looking for form and purpose as they ride the slipstream south.

I cant quite remember

I can’t quite remember who but someone asked,

“what happened to you all”

so I tried to explain and drifted.

We became lost,

we fell out and off and into,

walked down dark alleys

and along roads going nowhere,

sold our souls, our lives, our futures.

We found shallow answers to deep questions,

learned how to not answer questions at all,

expected the best and the worst and got neither,

earned and owned until we bled the excess,

as waste onto the precious land.

Regretted, recycled, reused, refused,

reinvented, rejected, relented and regurgitated

and for what, or whom,

did we limp so slowly?

or run so fast.

Players with bit parts gathered together,

scene after scene,

day after day,

rehearsing the works,

shaping the performance,

learning our lines,

our roles,

our characters.

We squabbled and argued over god and religion,

left millions to die,

killed millions more,

became self focused,

absorbed and self important,

until we forgot what it was to be alive.

Silent stain

A silent stain in a clean cacophony rubbing itself

against the invisible coarseness of another possibility

A silent stain unheard or seen,

finds a place to be permanent,

in a transitory time frame

A silent stain like a blinding darkness is alone in a crowd

It runs to stand still,

is always gone,

just left.

We are the fallen

We are the fallen, the lost and forgotten.

In our silence lie questions unanswered, unheard.

We are the new and the old,

the hope of the future and the pain of the past.

We are invisible though you see us,

as dead in life as in death,

the honesty of humanities piety.

We are the people,

the masses of life,

the hungry and the cold,

your nemesis ,

and we are standing at your door.

Sumain

This day of cobwebs and broomsticks ,

pumpkin faces and ghostly embraces.

This end of summer, turn of season,

warm colours collage so rich and full.

These moments strike matches and kindling crackle,

scarves wound tightly as warmer turns down .

Candles in windows ,

flickering brightly,

shadows of fantasy falling away .

2 0 2 3

Push has finally come to shove,

science suggests one move

whilst money plays another .

The ever growing crisis has become a commodity,

warning signs flash brightly enough for all to see.

The trivia of normality prevails,

wearing well washed green clothing ,

as the guilt of the gullible is offset,

to support smooth continuity .

As the demon knocks insistently at the door ,

those inside turn away ,

hoping it will walk away .