A prime minister prepares for a memorial by John Alwine-Mosely

(After G.K. Chesterton)

They haggle to find a market price
the sirens are dusted down
talking shops drone on
and dead to come still laugh

And in streets where children played
fathers long lost still watch
while the living weigh out votes
to the march of drum and fife

When bankers make the rules
you and I are erased in ledgers
and the green and pleasant land
walled off from those that build

And we that stand to see that stone
will know how many died in hope
that we would never march again
as we lay flowers and weep their tears

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Brexit Passions by John Alwyine-Mosely

I am condemned by others, wearing Asda’s finest, loving the curry, hating the Indian, them that visit Spain for sun with chips, who thought Labour was for the working man, they made the cross of wood and nails of iron.

That I must carry as this was born of my silence as factory whistles and streets of common worth became black and white movie reels.

Yet I stumble at shaky pensioners wanting back a childhood of back to backs and Empire cakes, and the Daily Mail Pharisees preaching whose life, whose tongue, speaks for me. Yet where was I when the tree was fell and the coal dug for the smelt of iron?

I watch a man round as a cottage loaf, t-shirt bare arms showing tattoos of faded love and sinking ships as a woman, hair dyed young, worn jacket too big for a shrinking body, kisses away his tears. I walk on, mothers are a story that others tell.

Let me help, another man says. Yet he speaks hope too loud like a Bible reading where God wears jeans and Angels are your buddy.  But he walks with me to rattle away the cawing rooks pecking at scattered seeds.

She doesn’t cry in the wilderness. So give her face to courage, let her smile words at bitter lips, let her be the icon lit with candles where flowers are gathered to rest.

Yet I stumble at save us flag wavers defending the big lie, the golf club wise men seeing no star. Yet where was I when the tree was fell and the coal dug for the smelt of iron?

Of the three, this woman listened between words, gave a wordless touch, let the day decide the colour of lipstick and if a Judas kissed she’d hit and forgive latter. When they called the sea a moat she and her sisters ran over waves to show how free they were.

Yet I stumble at those tongue smiths who made hard words too polished to see, who played the game, who spoke holding only rotting apples. Where were they when the tree was fell and the coal dug for the smelt of iron?

I am stripped, left nothing to reap, made a single road, given a shroud for a wedding dress.

It will go away, this wood will flower with May blossom, the nails will strike bells, candles will light the way not weep at dark silence. And pain is but thunder clearing a sky for dawn mists.

Forgive them for they know not what they do.

As I fall, hold me, give me warmth, reach out to each voice, make them a choir, sing with birds and dance with the breeze, make heaven seen.

And from dark cold valleys will come new turnings, new woods and places to dig and in clearings will be hands to hold and smiles at our fresh steps.

..

John is currently working in Poland as a TEFL teacher after 20 years of working in UK policy and service development for early years. He has had poetry published in many paper and on-line journals. These poems can be found at publishedpoems.wordpress.com

I wished upon a star by John Alwyine-Mosely

When was that night of Christmas lights
in streets shine-wet, the splash
of footsteps, windows bright for the curious
and you, hand cold and rough
as I tasted wood smoke of fireside happiness
Our conversation was as empty
as the puddles, just a reflection
that vanished as the car swished
by letting you make a joke about snow
I wanted to say ‘fuck’ but you had.

Now even the roses on the bird-cage
are plastic as the voices
that made me invisible,
like cast off toys in attics,
then dogs barking
said it was time to kiss the cross,
keep eyes cold,
like rows of your brightest books,
but outside leaves rustle in the wind
and distant birds dot across the sky
saying all that matters.

..

The ritual by John Alwyne-Mosely

Child starved
Child beaten
Child raped
Child killed

Please circle as appropriate
and state the year of concern

The teacher overlooked something was wrong
The doctor made a note too confidential to share
The social worker knocked at the door but didn’t wait
The mother never spoke
The dad never heard

Please circle as appropriate
and state the year of concern

They were overworked and not supervised
They failed to share
They were not trained for this matter
They did not listen

Please circle as appropriate
and state the year of concern

‘Two for me, none for you’ by John Alwyine-Mosely

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar

Oh I wonder what you are.

 …

Silky to touch and burnt as sun

just like the boy of Kwasi Bunn

who goes to work and not to school

And like his dad they say a fool.

 …

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar

Oh I wonder what you are.

 …

Gentle and soft but twist to snap,

just like the sleep ended by slap,

so trees are climbed to slice and chop

for bean or thumb to pop and plop.

 …

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar

Oh I wonder what you are.

 …

Earthy and sweet for tongue and lip,

borne high in sacks on back or hip

then marched to cell for corn and paste

and wash in water fresh with waste

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar

Oh I wonder what you are.

 …

Milky and rich from meadow grass

all green like boys who spray and gas

the bugs in fleshy skin and bone

to die, for what is reaped is sown

 …

Twinkle, twinkle chocolate bar

Oh I wonder what you are.

John Alwyine-Mosely is a poet from Bristol, England. His work has also appeared in Stare’s Nest, York Mix, Clear Poetry, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Street Cake, Screech Owl, Abbreviate Journal, The Ground. Aphelion, Uneven Floor and poems of his were distributed in “Feel the Love” held in Cobourg, Ontario.
 
https://publishedpoems.wordpress.com