Tag Archives: poetsonwordpress

An Easterly

The wind gets to you the way

other weathers won’t,

smiting your face with

unexpected blusters, the blows

turning your cheeks red,

chasing you round corners

as though each gust was

after you personally and

each grain of grit

aimed perfectly at the

centre of your eye.

Archipelago

We built our peninsula out from the

great landmass, laid foundations to

last a generation but

storms have eaten the earth,

washed struts out to sea, leaving an

archipelago on which each of us is left

stranded, dependant on social media or the

long journey over ever

deeper and more

dangerous seas.

Post-Post-Modernism, Anyone?

We are in deep shit now with Modernism, our

Academic knickers in a twist, the

gurning gurus of Eng.Lit. who speak

no English known to man or beast

a-gawp at Post-Modernism but quite

at a loss to name what might come next, their

grasp of English exhausted.

The Drearies

We must be wary of the Drearies

draining life of all fun because we

might dare to dance and laugh in the

face of all that suffering, our

immature expressions of pleasure met with a

glare and a sharp “Shush!”.

 

But within the laughter and dance lie

abyssals of want, longing, love, grief,

regret, desire, frustration, all

confused in that joy which can

one moment spring a smile and the

next spring tears.

 

Hearts

My heart goes out to hearts

caught in branches on a cold night;

caught waiting on a

street corner for a

car that won’t come; caught

watching the ice melt in a

bought drink that will

never be drunk; caught between

transplants not knowing which

soul to beat for; caught

hoping, caught dreaming;

caught in the act of

catching cold.

Utopia

Twin helicopters hover

over the demo but

other than that it’s the

same demo their

predecessors flocked to,

demanding utopia,

conveniently forgetting

all those they entombed in the

wrong utopia.

The Canonical Hours of a Working Man

Matins

In the ghost world the

ghost girl dances her

ghost whirls enlacing me in

veils so seductive I

sometimes pray the

dawn won’t come.

 

Lauds

But dawn does come with the

prayer my feet will

find the floor and that the

floor will bear my weight so I

will not start the day

flat on my face.

 

Prime

If there is a God it is coffee-coloured,

coffee-flavoured, dark-roasted,

perking like heavy breathing, its

consort sizzling in the pan, the

toaster popping its prize with a

sigh like a prayer.

 

Tierce

In the mad rush of the studio I

see something, take my chance,

get the set rebuilt and

knowing it will take time

slip out to light my

prayer to creativity.

 

Sext

Shall I make this poem a pun on Sex? But

lunch is when I have a moment to

lust over those who, at work,

I respect, would never dishonour, but

at quiet times imagine

undressed, themselves lustful.

 

 

None

Mid-afternoon is a sigh—no, a

yawn into the vast face of the work we’ve

chiselled all day into something we

pray is vaguely human, vaguely

real, vaguely worth all that

spent time to achieve.

 

Vespers

Outside the lamps are lit just as we

switch ours off and head away home

praying all is well with those

work has cut us off from, lit

phone-screens in the car-park evidence of

love, concern and care.

 

Compline

Fed and watered—ok, wined!—I

wend my way to my hotel, call home,

check the news, reply to emails,

clean myself, resign myself to bed

praying the ghost girl will still be

whirling in her ghost world.

Salted

footprints2

The snow recuses itself from the grass, but

retains my sole, though my

thoughts are salted with

such impurities the snow

should surely melt.

Necklace

Your neck, dear Lady,

deserves a poem but

can I find enough

fine words to

thread a necklace to

hold throughout the day and

not chafe? Or will

one word or another

prickle, my poem

tossed in a tray

with the rest of your

discarded finery?

Fog/Frost

fog_frost

The garden at night folds into the

fog rolling in whilst beneath it the

frost works its wonders

refiguring the bench-cover into a

carapace for some

movie monster and

freezing each dewdrop into

enough jewels to encrust

Orion’s ice-taut belt.

Sara in LaLaLand

Welcome to my world.

LittleSwitchBitch - An Irish Lass blogging about all things sex

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