Weekend Verse - A Selection of Recent Poetry

 A meanness runs through this sad, little island

And it settles over us like a skin,
And we hide under ten layers of irony,
And we recoil from sincerity,
And we mock everything left exposed,
And we rejoice at the pain we cause,
And we pull everyone to the bottom with us,
And we pull everyone to our level
And below.

 

 

Moroccan Oil

A magical substance,
From an exotic land,
It can do miracles, it must do,
Otherwise, how would such a people
Know how to use it.
If we can’t kill them all,
We can sell them in a bottle,
A sultry belly dancer
In translucent veils,
Coins glistening in the sun,
A handsome sheikh,
Pouring money and oil on your lap.
Do not see,
The man in his sandals,
Pick through the rubble,
For his grandchildren.

Plough through mud and bone,
In your monster of a car,
Imbued with the spirit of a Cherokee warrior,
Hang your dream catcher,
Light your sage,
Don your plastic headdress,
The wisdom of an ancient people,
Who couldn’t possibly exist today,
Do they deserve to?
Survival of the fittest,
We will loot your corpse,
Without checking for a pulse,
Slap your name on a helicopter,
And carry on the killing,
If you know what’s good for you:
Shut up and stay dead,
Now smile for the tourists.

“We said sorry, what more do they want?”

Cross my palm with silver,
And I’ll tell you your fortune.
Book those plane tickets to
A luxury resort in the Caribbean,
And feed your “gypsy” soul,
Scarves and skirts
Drip from your waist,
Gemstones adorn,
Your Bohemian wrist,
Throw on some scarves,
And your gladiator sandals.
It’s okay,
You’ll be allowed in the shop,
Lounge on the stones,
That block the caravans,
Don’t want those “dirty, thieving travellers”,
In your posh, English town.

 

My Nephew

I see the children in my nephew’s eyes.
I hear the children in his laughter.

I think of the children,
When a plane rumbles
Overhead, and
My nephew turns
His gaze to the sky.
He lifts his arms,
And I hold him up
To the white streak,
Where he points and laughs.
I want to fall to my knees,
Thinking of the children,
Who hear a plane
And run for shelter.

I have a cousin in Australia,
She’s three,
And I see the children in every photo
Where she’s dressed up,
And her parents have done her hair,
And she’s smeared makeup across her face like finger paint.
I am thankful for the constant stream
Of photos of her and her parents.

I see the children in her brown eyes and cheeky grin.

I have another cousin,
He’s the only person I talk video games with,
Last time I saw him,
I found him annoying,
But I can’t live without him.

He needs me.

I see them when my sister-in-law,
Goes for a scan,
And my brother talks
About baby names.
I see the elderly and disabled
In my parents,
And grandparents,
And I wonder if they could get away in time.

But even if I had no one,
Even if I loved no one,
Cared about no one,
I could – must – look at the people,
And see they are human.

The Great Dying

Should I eat my young?
Should I tell them we're dying?
Should I carry them through the desert?
Should we continue our search?
Our march across the scorched
Pangea, to find water?
Should we rest?
Should we head west?
Should we travel at night?

Should I lay them in the sand?
Let them rest?
Let their suffering come to an end?

Should I eat my young?

Edge of the World

Hazy sun,
Dancing over the
Green,
The bar
Carved into the
Cliffside
Looks down on
A glistening river.
A rooftop saxophone,
Warped, distorted
Metal,
Leads us
Down to the restaurant.
Somewhere,
A radio plays.
A bridge spans
The ravine,
And, over it, chug
Double-decker trains.
The sun burns,
Just like my wallet.

 

I don't like Spring

But the old me peels away
At the sight of the first, brave daffodils,
Green swords pushing through the dirt,
And life starts anew
Under a shower of cherry blossoms,
And I leave my coat to take
A leisurely, evening stroll.

I don't like Spring,
But after an endless winter
I turn towards the new year
And the new air,
And a carpet of bluebells.
My lungs are free,
And I float through the woods.

I don’t like Spring,
It’s cold and wet,
The mud hits my nose
And embeds itself
In my fingernails.

I don't like Spring,
But the Spring flowers know me,
And I rub their petals between my fingers,
And adore them.