a small town
A small town
The sun vainly warms a white plastic table
left outside a Sunday closed café, as I wrote
my name on the table’s dusty surface;
a nearly empty bus trundled by, two women
passengers looked out with total disinterest.
A girl sat on the pavement dunking a doll’s
head against the curb telling it to behave,
while a subdued red moped, hopelessly in love
with its female owner, leaned against a flaking
wall, a day of rest and everyone is bored.
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Unnatural Act
Unnatural Act
The man who masturbated under an oak in the hope
of being father of a tree was pleased when a sapling
grew on the spot of his semen, only it didn’t grow tall
enough to be a mast on a schooner, it was crooked
and had few leaves and its bark was pale and sickly.
Resentful he stopped calling the tree his little baby,
chopped it down instead and used it as a Christmas tree.
Everyone laughed and danced around the sad tree that
wore a red paper hat and not a star on its top. Sadness
turned to hate in the night when everyone was asleep
and drunk, the son self ignited and the house burned
down; as snow fell and roseate smoke lazily arose in
the silence of the holy night.
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(1 votes, average poem rating: 4 out of 5)
three skeleton keys
I know “Three Skeleton Keys”
I hear the sharp cries;
and screams of the rats, who;
are fierce and bold animals of the sea!
I hear the horrible crackling of the rats;
whose teeth grated against the glass!
I know “Three Skeleton Keys”
I see thousands of heads rose above the water;
heading straight to the tower;
I see the rats;
who are the vampire bats;
leaping against the heavy glass;
with their gleaming, beady bloody eyes!
I know “Three Skeleton Keys”
The rats odor filled the tower;
which rasped our nostrils with a pestilential, nauslating smell;
And no way of admitting fresh air;
Without admitting the rats!
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Now and Then
These words that flow from my pen
I want you to know you inspired them
And they flow freely when
I think of you now and then
My memories of us
Of the time we shared
Raise my spirits when
I think of you now and then
Our Future holds all the answers
And our past has already begun
And every day I love you more when
I think of you now and then
I have loved you then and still today
These feelings I can’t keep at bay
Now and forever and especially when
I think of you now and then
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breakfast, not at tiffany
Breakfast (Not at Tiffany)
He woke up to a cold morning, the pee in the pot under
the bed had frozen into an ice rink for bed bugs, still
a starlit night, day would be late only waking up about
nine; water in the basin he was supposed to was his face
in was frozen too, didn’t mind that, hastily put his cloth
on and went down to the kitchen. It was cold there too
the fire had nearly died out; he could always get more
coal in the basement, but rats lived there, so he didn’t.
Cold milk from the larder two big slices of bread with
hard margarine and sugar on, (mother had forgotten to
buy cheese again) breakfast, then he packed four more
slices of bread and wrapped them in brown paper for
his school lunch at twelve. Meeting his friends further
down the lane he told them of the breakfast his mother
had made, fried eggs, two no less, bacon and sausages,
the boys hung to his every word, everyone was now
very hungry. It used to be like that before his father left,
he had moved in with a tart, his mother said, in a way
he blamed himself when his father was around he was shy,
didn’t know him well since he was a seaman and away
most of the time. When the boys asked him where his dad
was, he told them he was in Australia prospecting for gold.
If they asked him again about his father, they had stopped
asking, he would tell them that he was dead, thinking of
that he had tears in his eyes. “What are you dreaming of
boy, the teacher asked.” Nothing I was just looking out
of the window.” “Well look at the blackboard and learn
something useful for a change.”
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the loss
The Loss
Went to the October beach and collected
warped pieces of iron that had fallen off
a rusty old ship, straightened metal and
sold it to a scrap dealer.
She came, combed her hair, made herself
beautiful just for me; I, following a dream
didn’t see that, had bought a row boat and
set out to find my tropical island.
Now I sit in the middle of the ocean too
tired to row, the island is as distant as ever
I regret, should have given her the money
and only bought myself a large T. shirt. .
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rumours and lies
Rumours and Lies.
It is not true, that
I’ve been running
across green fields
shouting: “I’m free,
free as a rabbit.”
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Beirut
Beirut.
I can sirens blares,
terror stricken faces look up
where bombers are blackening the sky,
dropping deadly cargo,
desecrating Beirut.
The survivors of Europe’s holocaust,
are reeking their vengeance on
Arab nations…
And cowed into silence
by the mighty axis, Israel and USA
we are silent
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reunion
Reunion
I travelled long to meet my three school friends at a restaurant,
didn’t recognize them, but they knew me; wore an expensive
overcoat was sun tanned and taller than them, yet when sitting
down I couldn’t reach the table; a waiter brought a baby seat.
My four friends drank beer, me they gave a glass of lemonade,
they spoke of a new airship bigger than an ocean going liner,
that could bring people to New York in great style. They ate
filet mignon with truffles and nut potatoes, simmered in best
Irish butter, Brussels sprouts and baby carrots Bordeaux wines,
me they gave a burger from the children’s menu.
“Why not Buenos Aires, I said they have got horses there and
North America is cold in the winter.” They laughed indulgently
and patted my head. Time to leave, outside I said good bye
to my friends they all had a family to go to. I began walking
through empty streets, but every house were lit up and I could
see people inside, when I came to my street I rang the door bell
to the second flat of an old house, there was no light and no one
answered, across the road a woman opened her window and
said that the people who lived there had died and their only son
lived Buenos Aires.
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snack
Snack.
The blue kitchen clock (Chinese) which hangs on
the wall, spooked me by falling down when, during
the night, I had a glass of wine and some camembert.
It continued its infernal ticking reminding me of spilt
time, intemperate moments and tempestuous love
affairs running into bad weather and sinking amidst
flotsam of bitter accusations. Kicked into mute silence,
barefoot at the time, bled profusely. I will not buy
a new one, it’s relaxing walking into the kitchen, late
at night, a glass of wine, (whose counting) eat a little
Roquefort without being reminded of my mortality
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