There is a violent melancholy
it’s in my lungs
my blood is curdled by it
it begs for someone, something
to be fought
just needless violence
to mark the vivacity
of this emptiness
poem
A lonely place
I am a fiction, a mythical beast
I am all the word games we play
The white noise of the poltergeist
smeared against the teeth
of those who’ve taken from the feast
It’s a lonely place to be sliced and diced
by the mastication of someone else’s inner grin.
The sound of mourning
The snowflake falls indifferent to it’s own impermanence
just as the greyed feather glides from its pyre
heedless to the swan that carried it
the world doesn’t mourn or care for all that we carry
and the wind screeches only what the listener tells it
Sisyphus shrugged
We struggle with the world’s indifference
the percussion of rain only background noise to existence
no God breathing chance into the dice
everything just is
apart from you and I
carrying the world on our shoulders
breathless and tired
Is this what it is to be human?
‘Looks what way,’ shrugged Sisyphus
Poetry off the cuff: Ripples
We threw ripples on the lake
skimming stones
a reflection
how we crest and flow
a surge before the fold
a rush before the pull
a swell and then a break
all these mistakes
and successes we take
a slowing of the pace
before rushing up again
Poetry off the cuff: We forgot the sun returns to us, eventually.
The red glow of cigarettes Marked the sunrise
the sun pulled up last night’s rain Into a mist
we tried to mimic the weeds
the way they swayed to the breeze yet held strong
Rooted to place.
Then came the arrival of goodbyes
among the songbirds
singing greetings.
we had whiled away the hours
till we had no skin in this play
bored and hollowed from each other
We could never be like the weeds
we chased the sun too much Instead of sitting in place.
Poetry off the cuff: The Grind
I always watch their teeth the news anchors, standing beside a ruin and wonder what they last bit into as the TV screen eats me up into the bad news that grinds my brain to mush
Poetry off the cuff: A self-portrait
I like to write short
and to the point
come to think of it
that makes my writing a mirror image
of my short-arsed self.
Sunday wordle: Children of the storm
We are the children of the storm
hung out to dry on the washing line
it’s all the fashion all the rage
to be outraged
a surge of hate
to counter our ‘revolution’
because we’re freaks
not ready for the role of human
Wound NaPoWriMo poem 10
Tired beyond comprehension
The world too full and empty
Nothing to be awake for
No desires to fulfil
But for this thirst for something
not quite resembling anything
Just a pain
festering in an unseen wound
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