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.
