Delighted and honoured that I am not a silent poet is on the shortlist for the Wild Card this year. Voting is open now – just click on the link and then on ‘Vote’. You’re not obliged to vote in more than one category. You are asked to say why you think whatever you vote for deserves to win.
come to pass
models, concrete, not mud
but not for long
yet among men
now full grown
stood near doors of
a brass girl…laughed
one more time
this unbroken circle
of all our sins
became a knot…none
of us not one of us
phony teachers + preachers
sleep in silk sheets
some where….on either
a hill or an island
so quiet like
a loaf of rising bread
or a letter
to the condemned
while the dead trees
of silence spread
their naked limbs
like a willow by the water
someone’s empty bed
all I know
is this universe
is a swarm of stars
and the moon
that ancient stone
burning like a ship
takes my life
on a journey without me
deaf as sleep
cold as the black sea.
is it today?
yes, the article.
it will all be different?
yes, it has been different quite a while……
will they send me back?
no you may stay here with me, safe.
They will offer you
a handful of inflated emotion,
tie you up in knots
having eaten their fill,
will not do anything you ask for
whilst continuing to deliver soundbites,
eager to show that they do really care
will continue to offer you handshakes,
full of lies and deceipt
with warped sense of logic,
as the pain frosts over our breaths
offer us scraps of austerity,
whilst hours draw by keep us unsatisfied,
continue their games to bend and shape us
apart from a few, most of collassal self-importance,
with their rhetoric full of emptiness
deliver to us, utter complete disrespect,
it is up to us to stir their will
in sweet sheer defiance,
carve a new domain
into which, us they must serve,
instead of corporations and lobbyists
and others with a lust of power,
deliver us human foundations.
built on us concepts of truth
that can be seeds of future’s rebirth.
numbers came suddenly, soon after one. nothing added any more, all began to subtract, divide, the result algebraic there are no rulers, lines to divide, the total is irrelevant now, the addition foremost. i have been to the counting.
initially, crossed the sea to the land, from one to another, then, talking. crossed the narrow bridge spoke of the past, you know what i mean. courage to walk
a book about death. 14.
irregular, you came, your best clothes shining. never mind. the first tune hit the mind, patterns and mathematics. the kindness that is.
he said. machine you see. glass reflecting. slowly it starts repeating. the walls of differing colours. we have the dvds. on and on repeating on and on repeating on and on repeating.
back to the counting, how many have there been, how many are left still standing. an issue for some, yet we amend the figures here and move on. lucky ones, maths divides and decimates others.
simple notes, there is much discussion now, where the place used to be pure quiet and acceptance.
it seems to him that talking does not get the job done. gently balancing wool. words fall .
we had gathered here before to watch the weathering. referendum come and gone with fury.
simple notes. none rise higher than the one next.
to you, to me, this may not be
For the girls choosing self-immolation rather than surrender
You want fire
From your hot little mama
Your hot little nine-year-old mama
Hot little nine-year-old mama of a bride
And she gives you a fire
And the rich aroma of a feast
And when you walk in and whiff it
You might think this girl’s a decent cook
And rub your hairy hands
With thoughts of a winter’s supper
And a lovely lipsmacking bonus later on
Between the newly washed matrimonial sheets
Where the child exchanged
For a sliver of your life’s hoard
Will arise like the flaming sword
And sear the clouded heavens open
The people who won’t be going home today
are people like you and people like me.
This morning they checked their emails,
read another chapter of their book,
bought a coffee to go and, wrapped against
only the March wind, chose the pavement.
The people who ran towards the blood
are people like you and people like me.
This afternoon they took off their coats
to pillow an injured man’s head,
blew their breath into a dying women,
put their palms across pulsing wounds.
All these people walked from the south
or the north, they were willing to cross over
and look east and west towards the other side,
the side with plenty of places for more bridges
if people like you and I make the space.
now bridges must
(to bear us up
and take the strain)
be built and kept
strong not broken
The pain showed up again
While the petrified wounds were still healing
That’s what pain sometimes does
Who cares about the affairs
of poor women
who work their fingers
to the bone
just ask them
those who have been let down
and taken up
like the hem of a gown
rich ladies wear
at the country club
taking up a collection for the nun
who cares for the orphans
when there is golf
and invitations to dances
to attend in the evening
on the east lawn
by the garden
the master in his white gloves
off of his evening jacket
and a flash of a silver flask
in the moonlight
like a dagger in the back
while those authorities on gas
and all of their advisors
go over lists of the uninvited
keeping tabs on who has
and who hasn’t shown up yet
and drinking cold duck
with their fish eggs
as the dark guests
who were never invited
dance alone in the garden
with their silhouettes.
‘City’ poem included in ‘Imperfect’ poetry collection published by Yew Tree Press, Gloucestershire, United Kingdom.
Music by Katie McCue
anastomosis [ah-nas″to-mo´sis] (pl. anastomo´ses) (Gr.)
It is bin day. Sound of breaking glass.
one person and another,
you and your kids
a busy crossing between beliefs.
from wick to ash.
full to empty.
Broken, blocked, under investigation.
No link, information dammed,
Adamant your side is right,
other side apostate.
Bloodied metal sends a message,
via media bridges.
Bins must be wheeled back to their places.