Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in January 2012
Just sits there
In the corner
By the ceiling
In the antiseptic isolation
Of the Neurological Ward,
Dark
Inscrutable
Death
Silently
Waiting
For that final moment
To spring
Propel itself from its perch up there
And grasp its prey
Death
Cold
Hostile
Inhuman
Utterly lacking compassion
As alien
And incomprehensible
As any predator
Dreamed up by Science Fiction …
Andrew Barham
Falling Through the Cracks - Diane Scantlebury
Today I saw a hungry man steal food
But I turned a blind eye,
As I opened the shop door to the street
He rushed past and stepped out,
Clutching the carton to his chest
Cradling it as if it were
A precious baby,
It happened in a fraction of a moment
So, was I complicit in his crime?
Surely the travesty was that he should need
To carry out this desperate act,
Whereas I had the luxury
Of choosing what I fancied,
How had he fallen so easily
Through the cracks of life’s pavement?
Diane Scantlebury
But I turned a blind eye,
As I opened the shop door to the street
He rushed past and stepped out,
Clutching the carton to his chest
Cradling it as if it were
A precious baby,
It happened in a fraction of a moment
So, was I complicit in his crime?
Surely the travesty was that he should need
To carry out this desperate act,
Whereas I had the luxury
Of choosing what I fancied,
How had he fallen so easily
Through the cracks of life’s pavement?
Diane Scantlebury
Dietc. - Lyndon Queripel
Vegetarians don't eat meat
And as everybody knows
They spill the beans
Split peas
Repeat cucumbers
And dig potatoes.
Lyndon Queripel
And as everybody knows
They spill the beans
Split peas
Repeat cucumbers
And dig potatoes.
Lyndon Queripel
Painted Smile - Ian Duquemin
I looked into her deep pool eyes, she stared back into mine
A chill then raged upon my back and shivers froze my spine
I heard the words she said aloud, believed them to be true
They unlocked free the beast in me to do the things he'd do
I took her tightly by the throat and wound my grieving grip
I noticed blood from biting teeth had dribbled from her lip
I kissed her for the last time and we fell against the door
A moment spent in passion 'til collapsing on the floor
Her eyes lay still and lifeless... Like in negatives of old
I held her in my trembling arms, her flesh now turning cold
It's then I let a cry out... A kind of agonising squeal
A call that some might pity if my pain they came to feel
Then in a moment mortified I stood back on my feet
I pulled a stool beside her and I sat down on the seat
Unsure of what had happened, I calmed myself and thought awhile
I took a lipstick from her purse and painted her a smile
I sat in morbid silence then was woken by a bell
Perhaps it was the demon who would drag me into hell
I covered up my ringing ears...
Dried off my fallen sticky tears...
I wondered how I'd cope inside for many, many years
A bang upon the barricade would shake my bones inside
I looked into the beady eye that lets you see outside
Behind the peeling painted door I spied an ageing priest
His hair as black as asphalt, combed back flat and highly greased
I asked him what he wanted... He held high a silver cross
Said, he had come to pray for me and comfort at my loss
I opened up the door to him and let the preacher in
He gazed at my predicament... Then stepped over my sin
He mumbled through some passages from script I did not know
Then spoke about the hellish place where I was sure to go
I said I'd never leave her, and as I bowed my head and cried
He stabbed me with his crucifix, blood spilled out from my side
My dying breath was awful cold...
My soul had been already sold
I held a hand toward my judge, who looked at me and grinned
He vanished right before me like the freezing winter wind
I looked upon the girl...
Who grinned her ruby painted smile
I tried to say "I loved you" but those words now tasted vile
I guess she had the last laugh as I lay there on the floor
The crooked smile upon her face the last thing that I saw
Ian Duquemin
A chill then raged upon my back and shivers froze my spine
I heard the words she said aloud, believed them to be true
They unlocked free the beast in me to do the things he'd do
I took her tightly by the throat and wound my grieving grip
I noticed blood from biting teeth had dribbled from her lip
I kissed her for the last time and we fell against the door
A moment spent in passion 'til collapsing on the floor
Her eyes lay still and lifeless... Like in negatives of old
I held her in my trembling arms, her flesh now turning cold
It's then I let a cry out... A kind of agonising squeal
A call that some might pity if my pain they came to feel
Then in a moment mortified I stood back on my feet
I pulled a stool beside her and I sat down on the seat
Unsure of what had happened, I calmed myself and thought awhile
I took a lipstick from her purse and painted her a smile
I sat in morbid silence then was woken by a bell
Perhaps it was the demon who would drag me into hell
I covered up my ringing ears...
Dried off my fallen sticky tears...
I wondered how I'd cope inside for many, many years
A bang upon the barricade would shake my bones inside
I looked into the beady eye that lets you see outside
Behind the peeling painted door I spied an ageing priest
His hair as black as asphalt, combed back flat and highly greased
I asked him what he wanted... He held high a silver cross
Said, he had come to pray for me and comfort at my loss
I opened up the door to him and let the preacher in
He gazed at my predicament... Then stepped over my sin
He mumbled through some passages from script I did not know
Then spoke about the hellish place where I was sure to go
I said I'd never leave her, and as I bowed my head and cried
He stabbed me with his crucifix, blood spilled out from my side
My dying breath was awful cold...
My soul had been already sold
I held a hand toward my judge, who looked at me and grinned
He vanished right before me like the freezing winter wind
I looked upon the girl...
Who grinned her ruby painted smile
I tried to say "I loved you" but those words now tasted vile
I guess she had the last laugh as I lay there on the floor
The crooked smile upon her face the last thing that I saw
Ian Duquemin
This is not a moralistic poem - Marianna Pliakou
Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in January 2012
The cherry tree carries the seeds of hope.
We look for it when most in need.
It caresses our eyes and speaks the language of our heart.
The last one we forgot. Now it’s all about the language of dry logic.
Its sterilized vocabulary dictates our lives.
Lives of attempted dry logic and linear narratives.
Progressive success is the dangling carrot.
But here we are, looking for the cherry tree.
Because our eyes are aching, our dehydrated consciousness suffers.
But we won’t find it in the forest, nor in the shape of a tree.
Because the cherry tree is the “other one”.
The one we chose to ignore, the marginalized one, pushed outside our micro-world.
The one we need to approach again.
The one that carries the seeds of our decency.
Marianna Pliakou
The cherry tree carries the seeds of hope.
We look for it when most in need.
It caresses our eyes and speaks the language of our heart.
The last one we forgot. Now it’s all about the language of dry logic.
Its sterilized vocabulary dictates our lives.
Lives of attempted dry logic and linear narratives.
Progressive success is the dangling carrot.
But here we are, looking for the cherry tree.
Because our eyes are aching, our dehydrated consciousness suffers.
But we won’t find it in the forest, nor in the shape of a tree.
Because the cherry tree is the “other one”.
The one we chose to ignore, the marginalized one, pushed outside our micro-world.
The one we need to approach again.
The one that carries the seeds of our decency.
Marianna Pliakou
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)