the life of horses
The Life Of Horses
The track to where peat was cut, and dried for
the stove, was in rain so soggy that cartwheels
sank into boggy soil, hard for horses to pull
leaving them tired, shaking in fear of the whip;
beautiful brown eyes wrung and bloodshot by
terror. Some farmer, treated their horses as
partner in the struggle to eke a living from tired
soil. Others cruelly used the whip hard, life had
frozen their souls, bitter men who hated the sky.
“To live a meaningful life on earth, we must
have compassion for all creature,” a preacher
said. But for the brutalized men such words held
no meaning and were to be laughed at as effete;
a horse was a tool to be used till it was sent to
the knacker’s yard. No one dries peat here
anymore, the track is barely visible, marshland,
a bird sanctuary, but large amber tears I found
in the tall grass along the old track.
rate this poem: 
the waiting
The Waiting
He had been sitting in his chair longer than usual,
listening for a voice that was tired of waiting;
dread filled its vacuum which made him restless
and he began walking only to find himself at strange
places spoken to by faces he didn’t know and
brought back to the home. It disturbed him that he
couldn’t find his house, it had been sold, although
he couldn’t remember selling; now he lived in
a home sharing room with a shadowy figure that
never got out of bed.
Today, dressed in a blue suit and the red tie his
wife gave him year ago, he was going to try
find his old home, move in and everything would
be just fine. In the hall he was stopped by
the woman who owned the place: “You can’t go
out, you only get lost and cause us lots of bother.”
“Let me walk in the garden then.” He begged.
“No, go back to your room you can see the garden
from there. He sat on his bed, now a prisoner and
there was only one escape, hoped he didn’t have
to wait too long.
rate this poem:
the blue towel
The Blue Towel
Not much of a home in the cold glare of
clear days, threshold worn down to shiny
nails, shabby lino floor and a kitchen door
that kept open up whether locked or not,
letting in a frozen shadow so starved of
human contact that it often touched my
face when I slept on a mattress on the floor.
Mother occupied the bedroom; I didn’t
enter this place of mystery that looked
as a tornado had blows through, there
were days when she made a valiant
attempt to put clothes on hanger and in
drawers, usually if there was a new man
in her life, it didn’t last, nor did the men
When she came home from the factory
she half stripped and washed in an enamel
basin that had painted roses on, dried her
face in on a blue towel that hung on a nail
in the kitchen, rolled herself a cigarette lit
it inhaled deeply and began reading in
the book she hadn’t finished last night.
rate this poem:
The lovers
The lovers
Moonlight in the park of passion, they sat reading
each others bank statement, in her lap a posy of
flowers he had taken from a day fresh grave and as
owls in ancient tree hooted, he thought they were
serenading them. Inhaling the melancholic sent of
stolen flowers she said: “We can’t get married yet,
my love.” “I know dear, we have to wait till your
parents die, since you are looking after them, as I do
mine, we just have to be patient and wait, what they
leave will be ours.” He fumbled in his pocket and
gave her a rust penny a child had lost outside
a tuck-shop, a token of his love for her, although
she had a handbag so full of coins it needed an
extra strap. The moon kept on shining for the thrifty
pair where they sat, on a green bench of love,
whispering sexy balance sheet, to each others.
rate this poem:
lazy afternoon and a cook
Lazy Afternoon and a Cook.
The kitchen clock, devour my time while the cabbage
boil, it ticks my life away. I close my eyes and time
rolls back to childhood, there was a fire, a key’s gone
missing, a broken window and a cold night.
An unreal memory, as a dream dreamt long ago and
has now lost all meaning. Behind flames I see shadow
dance, are they dervishes of fire burning unwanted
memories to cinders?
Cabbage done, on each leave I put spiced, chopped
meat, roll them together, they look like tiny pillows,
bake them for half an hour, in a medium hot oven.
The dish is called: Boneless Rabbits.
rate this poem:
summer dream
Summer Dream
This august landscape of tired, dry straw
that groans when a zephyr sloppily sneezes,
where phone masts lose focus, lost words
trickle down dry wood as liquefied sugar in
a frying. In afternoons, masts vanish into
their own shadow; and lovers’ call are lost.
Under an oak a shepherd sits, dreaming of
Falling snow, barefoot walk in a landscape
wrapped in a Christmas card, sent by his
mother who lives in wonderland; red cabins
and snow, soft as angels’ wings, there, where
bells tinkle in evergreens, every afternoon.
rate this poem:
Dust Rain
Flying rids dust particles,
From between creases,
Hidden within the cloth,
Hanging against the window.
Certain memories too painful
Of their purpose for being
Plague the room with terror,
With angry dreams of regret.
Winter air blows through,
Stirring the stale atmosphere
By silently bellowing the cries,
Of an innocent sufferer of neglect.
rate this poem:
Shark Tale
Your untimely death would’ve served
As cataracts within our eyes;
Verifying our idealized view,
Endorsing our biased outlook,
Manifesting our nostalgic feelings
Of your hidden, feigned character.
Had quietus bestowed itself on you
We would have mourned a façade,
Wasting steady buckets of tears,
Bawling and crying over you;
The model self-righteous predator
Who used disease as a crutch.
Burial would’ve concealed your plans
Devised in your mind for many years;
To chisel away our many successes,
Seeking revenge for our existence,
Because of your reckless jealousy
Of the biological creation you spawned.
Your survival enabled us to feel
The powerful spark of your hatred,
Existing in your psyche genetically,
Making us know your true nature,
While you are alive instead of being
Blinded in hindsight by your death.
rate this poem:
epiphany
Epiphany
A morning after rain I fell down a mineshaft
into a maze of tunnels made of melancholic
old man’s tear, at the end of a tunnel, a light
so sharp it sapped life’s energy and pulled
towards it like a magnet seeking a lose nail,
threw myself into a side tunnel and found
a kaleidoscope of pulsating colours glowing
in perfect harmony, I could understand all.
Climbed up a ladder that had 95 rungs, five
more and I would have ended up in Nirvana.
I had overcome oldness and frailty; nothing
can get me low, I shall go on being grumpy
till I die.
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