Have you ever considered poetry to be a crime? It seems, since the pandemic, some legislation, here in the UK, has crept in through the backdoor. Read on to find out more.
Tag: poetry
No Man’s Land
What happens when you get a group of male poets together and ask them to write about being men?
Well, apart from some creative differences, and a little collateral damage, you get a great collection of poetry.
Where one man reflects on the consequences of his parent’s taste in music, another…
Blame Edith Piaf
Edith Piaf sang it better than me
Non, Je ne regrette rien
But I do regrette
And I do rien
Keeps my pen going on, and on, and on, and on…
Procrastination
From behind her veil of dandelion
And daffodil, she wiped sleep from his eyes,
Lulled him from a Winter’s hibernation.
There were new seeds to be sown, grassy lawns
To be mown, clutter untangled from sheds
And outhouses, his list trailed across
Well thumbed pages. He took another sip
Of tea. Hadn’t he read somewhere, sometimes
It was better to let nature take her course.
Shipwrecked
Between a sun and crescent moon, he stood on deck and filled his lungs. Wind circled in the palm of his hands. Pithy, these thoughts of meditation, cacophonies of bondage caught inside an untranslated meaning of a smile. A man’s world was always noisy. He preferred the roar of cities, the motion of land, and people. He gazed at the shadow standing by the Bridge of Baiae and asked why lakes carry a belly full of sky. Then let his hands fall, like the colour of jade, into uncaring waters.
The Anatomy of a Hare
One paw touched a cold kerbstone. I thought she was a jill. Her form too feminine for a jack. Against the wet tarmac I saw long ears with black tips, longer hind legs, distinguishing her from a rabbit. The fur on her back was dense, brown and grizzled, yellow colouration on her flanks led to a soft white underbelly. Maybe she was a witch? Her eyes were still open; startled as they searched for the moon.
Tower of Strength
From Bermondsey, not Babel
Not Agrona, more Becuille
Factual, not fable
She was the banquet
At my table
Universal Credit
Saturday, a priest amongst days.
These poor hands receive the descent of man,
My rightful share in an illegal age.
I am a writer, not a fighter,
Searching old stories hidden under rock,
Of how angels never made it underground,
Then embracing an eleven-o-clock break
To consider whiff-waff and dildrams.
Don’t ask me what I mean.
Instead, consider grandmother’s glass eye
And her three hours of secret history.
The nanny state made me. I intend to enjoy it.
Epitaph
Back to the shoreline, you stroked
with reverent fingers, weathered
wet and cold between the eyes
My sisters came and picked my bones
Caused salty scratches to the skin
A public nakedness for all to see
Soon forgotten as the earth passed
Razored
Above Kite Hill, you searched for the right breeze.
I waited, my manjha ready to cut.
Below, an assembly clapped and cheered
As a million eyes were averted
By sordid headlines and Sunday lattes.