little pieces of peace
flung around the world like confetti
they fall in the most unlikely of places
and sometimes never fall at all
so what can we do to even the fall
to spread the little pieces more evenly
that my friends is the answer to find
the one and only solution
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/puzzled/
and to paraphrase Robert Louis Stevenson:
The world is so full of wonderful things
So why are we not all as happy as kings?
in the compost loo
amongst the poo
shone a shiny thing
an engagement ring
but how it got there
was the strangest affair
for I had swallowed it whole
to save my soul
from the woman of my dreams
who was not what she seemed
once she’d peeled off her skin
to reveal the lizard within
a vengeful coquette
with a strange silhouette
she slithered away
in the cold dying day
what you read
and what you hear
is not always true
or not always clear
what you think
and what you learn
is seldom bought
or seldom earned
what you want
and what you see
is not all of you
or not all of me
what we shared
and at what cost
is not our fault
has not been lost
dedicated to those who choose abuse
over forgiveness
who choose misrepresentation
over rational thought
who choose to rant and rave
with closed ears and eyes
in bullying cliques
and who find themselves adrift without hope
and without friends
with ever-more hardened hearts
and blinkered souls.
hunkered down
in Gower dunes
on a stepping stile
of wind-blown wood
we sat
either / side
this wire fence
eating soup
and sandwiches
and remnants
of Christmas cake
with flying sand particles
that tinkled
tiny whispers
on our Gortex backs
from last year
to this year
or so it seemed
we kissed in the red phone box
until our teenage lips were sore
and in your mother’s unmade bed
her hippy mattress on the floor
we kissed in the silent church yard
amongst the souls who died at war
and holding hands at nightfall
by these glowing moonlit shores
we kissed in the uncut wheat field
under golden rays outdoors
and at the party of a mutual friend
we yearned for something more
we kissed in the poetry book section
of our favourite secondhand store
and there we found the three words
we had dared not speak before
we kissed in the same red phone box
until our adult lips were almost sore
and in this unmade marriage bed
our trendy futon on the floor
Mother made quite a fuss
Police probed, investigated us
But it was all fun, artistic fake
Making money for god’s sake
Maybe McLaren was my Manet
A cash from chaos punk cliché
My naked flesh filled the screen
Underage, declared obscene
I didn’t mind playing Victorine
Being part of his money machine
She was later the whore Olympia
And like me created mild hysteria
From a generation with no future
I drew strength from this venture
But now my Manet has moved on
Anarchic in his musical denouement
Would I change any of this?
Regret I hadn’t covered my tits?
Oh god no! Just look at that stare
I’m now a fucking millionaire.
(photo: Bow Wow Wow album cover 1981)
I gallop like a horse
an odd sight I will admit
but the winter sun has warmed my spirits
past teasel heads and the old gate post
blue sky light
red dogwood stems all of a tangle
the winter garden rests
five tall poplars wear ivy leggings
green arrows point me south by southeast
to copper islands mapped out in lichens
where fungi sprouts from torn silage bail holes
I come across a sheep stuck in wire fencing
released and thankful it contemplates me
but an empty belly needs filling
by the road some broken pink rubble
and graffiti in a bus shelter
taking care on the steep descent to the village below
there is an upturned table in a front garden which makes for a sorry sight
as is this home wind power system
but the guardian at the door sits proud and alert
some other words catch in my mane like drops of dew
Doombar and Pint
Grit and Salt
Sunday and Carvery
the crossing by the school not in use
I wave to Santa waiting patiently down an alley
run my finger over carved inscriptions on tarred poles
a familiar shadow greets me on the memorial
as my imaginary horse gallops off down the old railway tracks
frightened I think of the coming water jump
and on to this field for budding heroes
or a blackbird cautiously walking the line
rolling without steam
the people of the world communicate their anger and frustration
with love it seems
on public surfaces
I hear the silent crack of a branch breaking in a storm
water flowing under an arch of trees
I open the gate here -> but the directions are just a joke
here the dead miners sleep under coal black headstones
their old terrace houses have coal bunkers and outside toilets
my illusions momentarily shattered for no reason
tractor tracks cross my narrow path
what I would give to unpadlock these blue doors and rummage inside
a red gate beckons its owner
no more will the bell toll for the village
expanding red foam fungus escapes from a builder’s yard mess
carry me across the crumbling river bridge before we both break with age
peep as we go through verdigris rust holes
down railway line supports
and on festive peeling paint colours
galloping now the last stretch
a pleasant view some might think
like this starling in high wire silhouette
I come home to a sheepish welcome party
what do you see in your landscape?
under the browns and greens and
brick and stone?
the people mining?
the underwater rivers carrying the dead?
tunnels, caverns, echoing chambers?
choirs of burrowing worms
clambering and clawing between the rocks
and soil?
dark isn’t it?
rain trickles down through the cracks
forming invisible waterfalls
some as thin as threads of silk
others mighty as volcanic vents
and voices from the floating dead
they pass through this subterranean world
without a care it seems
for the light has been exhausted from their eyes
the sun eternally extinquished
demons and gods quelled in the name of death
coal face pick axe pit prop
the shaft air warm like an exhaled breath
and then they are no more
this is no more
we are gone
called for
ushered to a new beginning
somewhere bright where angels sing
somewhere warm and comforting
somewhere we can be free
and the conversation is carried on
dead poets
dead knowits
dead actors
dead artists
dead singers
dead guitarists
dead dodos
dead deities
dead revolutionaries
dead Rosemary's
dead presidents
dead residents
dead ringers
dead gunslingers
Dead Kennedys
dead nobodies
dead celebs
dead corpses
dead doornails
dead ducks
dead whippets
dead snippets
dead beats
dead tweets
from
beyond
the grave
(amazing how they manage
their profiles and accounts)
the attic space
is a crawling space
with spider nest homes
and house fly homes
there are empty boxes
filled up boxes
of odds and ends
that never end
some carpet pieces
lost jigsaw pieces
kids toys for the next
generations
keepsakes from the past
generations
why am I here?
well that’s not so clear
I see the time has flown
the bulb has blown
now I’m all alone
yes I’m all alone
in this dark debris
of memories
