Poems — 2013 Collection

Cleft Sticks
Home silent and dark
save the spark
of mute TV
and me, alone,
not yet cold.

Amongst a mould
of decayed sins
begins, life again;
pen fighting,
writing each sigh
as the seconds die.

The thought emerges,
it grows, it surges
around my head
until I’ve said
what buckles breath
and mirrors death.

So, darkly diminished
and all but finished,
my spirit’s confusion
fights this bleak conclusion.

Can’t go forward, nor back.

To Whom the Years have Parted
I shall be gone, then.
Since you insist on walking the way alone.
Far from home, I sat beneath
the Eucalyptus trees
and dined with ghosts who have long since left.
Although, the memories linger still.

Look you! The place where time does slow.
Keep low, lest it demand the toll.
Staring back at I, the image of a man,
body wracked by the long passage of life,
years apart from the boy I used to know.

A Reply from the Barefoot Boy
You. Do not blame the rushing of days
they are not responsible for this difference,
our parting of ways.
Remember it was not I who reneged on the pact we made –
to dance we demons,
no matter how afraid.

Don’t forget. I am problems: contusions of fate.
Branches of wood carved into figurines.
A lowly king ignoring its mate.
I sorrowfully sing to shoulder the blame,
whereas you my oldest and dearest friend,
Quit! Followed the path and played the game.
We have been parted ever since.

So you must forgive me if I am not the one who mourns,
your passing to a realm anew.
For you see I am also ensnared within the thorns.
And whilst yours will be a life filled with love and trust,
in the long years ahead.
I, that barefoot boy in the dust,
will forever dance alone instead.
Under the setting sun of a world you left behind.

What did he say?

Conversations in South Africa
Last night a white man told me about his country.
Scotch whiskey loosened the tongue.
The blacks, they are criminal, lazy and dumb,
he did cry.
Shocked: you do not say such things where I am from,
was my reply.
He looks at me, PAP PAP PAP PAP PAP PAP PAP PAP PAP!
There you see,
they’ve killed your wife and two daughters.
Now you tell me why I should talk civilised.

The Words Are Missing
I’m rather embarrassed to tell you
I can no longer control my tongue.
Once it would weave the most complicated of notions,
brave new worlds springing forth with the lightest of touches,
inspiring a few who would listen.
Now the words are missing.
Structures laid incomplete, half finished.
Straw houses devoid of detail.
Its pace has changed,
where once we danced, now we stumble.
Slow. Uncertain. Enfeebled.
I miss the energy of the words,
yet until I leave here my tongue will not listen.

Ascent
Imagine a reality composed only of lines.
Now add points of weakness,
scattered and varied nodes of assistance.
Forward movement will be hard won,
earned though skillful manipulation;
brutal strength.
Success is never instant, nor can you cheat.
Failure returns you to the beginning.
In this austere dimension time pulsates:
what occurs in moments lasts a lifetime.
Set eternal as lines of the future,
attempted by those who come after.
They will know your names.

The Problem
I sent a problem today.
Worked it out thoroughly first,
wrapped it up in tape –
and went at it!
The devious thing struggled long and hard,
And at one point I nearly let go,
(how terrible that could have been!)
but finally the beast relented. Submitted.
And I sent it.
Its somebody else’s problem now,
but I do miss the fight.

Gravity Killed Me
Falling is the strongest state,
a moment of stasis,
the curvature of fate.
My mind races as the body falls,
a collection of matter
responding to mother’s calls.
Who knows, maybe I’ll be forgotten,
an escapee forever to fly,
in that empty void between land and sky.
But probably not.
Life’s a bitch, eh?

Taking Stock
Ripped fingers, broken toes.
Cuts under hand and under foot.
Fresh scars atop the old.
Dirtied clothes now much too big.
Scraggly facial hair, itchy sunburn.
Out of food and out of skin.
Low on strength, full on psyche.
Six days left.

Numbers in the Book
There are texts filled with figures,
rows of digits proudly sat upon a page.
The 7s are my favourite,
cheeky little devils who chase me to my wit’s end!
So somedays I play with the 5s instead.
One cold morning I plan to dual an 8,
although I doubt I’ll emerge unscathed from that encounter!
For they are a violent new breed.
These numbers are my guides:
markers in a life lost to obsession.

Lost in England
Where are you from?
This is the hardest question.
Do I say the Lancashire hills?
My place of birth?
Or the Cotswold dales,
where I was raised.
perhaps amongst the Welsh,
where I received my education.
Or the Cornish shores,
by which I now live.

I find myself –
too British to be an international.
Not English enough to be a patriot.
I’m a transient,
shaped by localities I have no attachment for.
Yet forever bound to this small island
I find myself a part of.

Last Day (21 nights later)
Man of the moment,
you say party I say die.
‘Down with words’ esoterrorist.
Ergonomic king of my castle.
D-Day.