A Bit Of My Poetry

The Boding

    T  h
      e 
        B
          o
            d
           ing
         Rattling
       with quivers
     of   chill   the 
    snake of my breath 
   slithers free. Hands
     slice  downwards
     into the base of
        my pockets.
         Shoulders
          hunch, neck 
           scrunched 
            I hunker on
              through Winter’s                 lucent bones,
                carrying the weight         of unease within my
                  constricting skin. Unable to contradict my own
                   oviparous nature I incubate        anxiety and 
                          doubt.  I  take            refuge from 
                                                    a cavernous
                                                   wasteland 
                                                  existence
                                                 hiding 
                                                deep in  
                                               the coil
                                               of your 
                                                mind.
                            The               forked 
                           nature            of your         
                           undulating      thoughts 
                            heats  the  cold of my
                              blood and feeds my

                                                            hunger!

Small Kitchen

Dancing whispered fear, she carefully choreographed

his evening meal, heart fluttering like a wounded sparrow

 

as the beat of his feet ground his presence to her consciousness.

Contrary to Pavlov’s dog, the lazy metronome of his breathing, in

 

then out, spawned a psychic desert. Her well-worn footwork

and gestures remained instinctive as he sang once again

 

his favourite song. She followed his lead, the subtle signs giving

encouragement of her subservience which she plated

 

and served to him with a side order of prayer. His appetite increased

as he feasted and though she fed him the entirety of her independence

 

he craved more. With mismatched souls at counterpoint

his swaggering presentation cowed her naked melody,

 

stilled her perfect timing. This small kitchen setting, was

stage made for a ubiquitous, repeat performance of

 

his potent unrestraint.

 

The Homecoming Battle

Battering drums of feet hitting concrete,

Cackling cacophony of shrill gossips treats,

Shoving past war painted, birther’s of terror,

Occasional screeching’s of insincere greets.

 

I hold my position and scan the horizon,

No movement of forces, no sighting of ranks,

Opponents and rivals move inwards towards me,

Pressing in at my sides and sniping my flanks.

 

Fearing my strength and resolve can’t continue,

Lost concentration may concede all I’ve gained,

Espying my target renews my persistence,

My faltering stamina is enriched and sustained.

 

Doors explode outwards with force of gained freedom,

The hordes of the future surge forward as one,

Running at arms and grasping at coat tails,

I reach out and grab my war-weary son.

 

He hugs me so tightly I fear I’ll stop breathing,

Pulling quickly away so he won’t appear fool,

My heart beats with love and his eyes shine with childhood,

I take hold his hand and we head home from school.

 

The Midnight Ceasefire Statements

in chosen moment

whispering silence

falls with silken moonlight

softening the city

 

silver silhouettes

pour phantom calm

across coarse dust-cratered

highways empty of souls

 

beckoning shadows

of blast-broke dwellings

stand their vigil with blind

uninhabited eyes

 

hesitant questions hang

on the heavy air

as ghosts brake their cover

with fearful movement

 

chalk-lit streets give welcome

to the life seekers

offering them the sky

empty of night-fire death

 

one small voice sings in praise

Allahu Akbar

echoing in darkness

as stars shine brightly above  

 

 

Walking the High Street

Wild and flighty scraps of paper

Bounce and scamper in search of their owners

Scurrying over flattened balls of chewing-gum graffiti

 

Bright flashes from a neon sign

Match well the cold, angry-man, grey pavement

It screams silently to a dark, world worn pigeon at my feet

 

Tightening my cold luring coat

I squeeze together my thin toothpaste bones

And rattle with quivers of chill as snakes of breath slither free

 

Following their mist shimmer trail

As they dissipate into the north wind

I feel a familiar foreboding in this dark city dawn

 

The wreckage of society

Stares with frozen eyes from a darkened door

Small quilt and bob cap defences now defeated by neglect

 

Bowing I give empty blessing

Hollow hand soft covers the unknown face

And I say silent prayers to a God I know does not exist

 

Deaths silence is rudely broken

As I hear my own unrecognised voice

Giving factual reports of another through the cracks body

 

Police appointed boots feel heavy

Standing in blue uniformed attention

Beside lost humanity to be cleared before mornings rush

 

Aliens In Transit

My split end hair trips the light fantastic as

it freefalls down and around your nowhere

empty heart shaped hole. Winds of nutmeg

histories so similar as to add whimsy

to the turmoil of lust, build walls of solitude

 

…..Your contraband choices,

my suburban unset jam,

our firebird distractions…..

 

The train is at the station where choices

matter but my shoes are heeled and

the movie reel is far from finished. This

ISIS hatred beats me to an ignorance, such

that, the shrinking violet can never bloom

 

…..You offer sweet fruit,

I hunger,

We diverge.