Assorted poems

HAPPY DAYS. The Stratfordian

Chests expanding
Now they’re all standing
To praise the woman who had no choice.
Important name change
One massive rearrange
Allows the woman her Rolls-Royce.
Yet…
Subjects starving
Government carving
up the meat to salt the wound
You bake a cake
I’ll be at a wake
Where I won’t escape that damn tune
Sing it loudly
Sing it proudly
And wave that flag although it’s cursed
Chests expanding
Not understanding
As waistcoat buttons begin to burst.
IFH.

On seeing old folk shopping. The Stratfordian

Side by side
lumbering.
A herd of wounded rhino
bent backed stick heavy.
Tottering towards termination.
Taken by Tesco trolley towards checkout.

What becomes of the broken hearted?
Alone.
Companion-less.
Worn on the wheel of life
devoid now of the man or woman
they never truly loved but miss all the same.
An empty basket.
No honey
No money
It’s not funny.
It’s life. 

IFH

…To the river…

The Stratfordian
Bench in regent’s park

Past the fat lady who sits on the bench
with her supermarket trolley and unbearable stench.
Past the small children who play in the park
hoping they are called in well before dark.
Past the trembling soldier
with his thoughts insane
and pictures of his best friend screaming in pain.
Past the empty man forever unlocked
whose pathway in life has always been blocked.

To a message of love I wish she’d deliver
It’s a very short walk down to the river. 

IFH

The cut. The Stratfordian

I could give you what you need today.
But you would only squander away
my gift
with an early morning decision
and a swift and clean incision
that would cut deep into all our lives. 

IFH

 Last night. The Stratfordian

All my long life I have waited
and pondered on what you might be wearing
on that last night when you come to gather me up.
Leading me by my shaking hand on a cautious creep
towards the mysterious door that waits ajar.
Will there be a blinding flash of light?
An Eternal Night?
A voice I know but cannot name?
My mother’s face or…more of the same?  

IFH

Horse. The Stratfordian

I am a performing circus horse. 

I’ve learnt well 

the tricks of my trade. 

The raising and lowering of my head 

the toss of mane.

Pretend I’m dead. 

But that pat on the head… 

makes up for the cruelty of it all.  

See me trot, see me rear.  

Come close my love 

whisper in my ear, tell me that I have a career, with you…forever. 

See me gallop and take the jump 

Finest hay and sugar lump. 

All on cue. 

Right on course 

this fine, obedient,  

performing horse.  

IFH

———————————-

error: Content is protected !!