Daddies and Sweets

It’s
drizzling today – but at least it’s warm.
I sit, legs
dangling on the sandstone garden wall.
I am trying hard,
to make my final sweet
last, until tea time
yet I somehow
doubt it will.

There’s
a man in with Mama who I don’t recall
ever seeing before.
They
are sitting side by side eating strawberries
I really hope they
save some for me.
Their voices are low – but every now and
again,
I can here Mama laugh.
She doesn’t laugh that
often – I guess
that’s how I notice it so, when she does.
I swallow my sweet, feeling annoyed with myself
for being so greedy.

I wish they would hurry up and finish whatever
it is, they’ve got to say.
Eventually I hear the sound of the
front door being
rattled open.
Sometimes in the really wet weather
the door sticks –
Mama hit it with a pick axe once, made
no difference other than it broke the handle.
For months afterwards we used a spoon
to turn the lock until finally an old friend
came to fix it –
‘free of charge’ Mama said!

Finally
side by side out they came  – he looked full of himself to me.
Mama acted  all surprised on seeing me.
Can’t think why – she had told me to sit
there.
She
started making funny head gestures towards the house.
I jumped
down from the wall – but not before
the man  had
strolled  towards me.
I could smell
those strawberries on his thick beer laden breath.
He took some sweets from his pocket, holding them out to me.
Mama
nodded for me to accept – so I took them.
My fingers
soon expertly rummaging
in amongst the bright coloured wrappers
looking  for my favourite.
Some of Mamas words  got a
little lost as I unwrapped the sweets.
However, I think I heard
her say
‘Mary, say hello to your
new Daddy’.
I smiled – at least this one brings me sweets…

Poppy ~xx~

 

Posthumous Pen

We sit, sharing your scotch and soul
renouncing the new, none nobility who
reside down the hall.
You colour me a story, about art reflecting life.
Where contrived painters, daub
their disjointed views, onto canvas’s
pinned to fragile walls of hope and hate.

Maybe I say.
But what about the unnoticed poets, who freed
their private thoughts
in black and white, pressed
between the pages new.
Works, where few,
seldom seem to go these days
until the writers been buried, deep
and in debt.

Then, up they rise
the new age, poetic apostle – airing
all those long faded, dusty words.
Bringing home to them, some posthumous
unheard of, literary award.

Well then, you smile.
It would seem that death does
have some rewards – so please before
you leave, my dear:

Pass me, my best poets pen…

We Are Sorry

How the Seasons, always
they do separate
when comes the time is final.

To leave us only, with their absent faces
falling swirling
caught between the brittle branch
of man, and wind.

Red random now, are those petals poor,
through
thoughts of tears
that bury deep, beneath our hurried feet.
In blacks and whites of reason
whose distance far divides
in what tomorrow strives to bring.

And, when the mornings, sunlight smile,
diluted in it’s length of stay –
shall dim to fade.

We, will offer no more
understandings of this fight.

But in words of empty, shallow ending days
I hope you understand:

We are sorry for your loss.

Drowning Daffodils.

You begged to go swim –
to sleep
deeply, of the fish and ocean.
So slowly with the rising of the tide
we sank to our knees, dancing
for reasons of know, knowing.

We had a love house
flooded plains, hidden from
the fat eyed women and flat capped men
who sat outside, beside their view of life
wagging their
tongues, of debased woe.

Remember when they found us, seaweed
rolled – with hair a mess and features
cold.
Didn’t I say – we needed to rise

but instead we kept on dancing
far beyond those fields of
golden, swaying daffodils…

No!

There is no one who can touch me
beyond my feelings, for that sleepless
red, gigantic moon.

Our love was not of art, metered
in verse, or painted in scenes that coloured
the watchful eye.

I will you, take flight –
not to return; taken by those suspect winds
that blow the chills through
uninviting doors.

No complaining – no intentions ever meant
no smiles, no voiceless regrets, now
long solitary reviving those times
on so many counted ifs!


You called me – your autumn
glazed in tones of fertile gold.
I replied, that autumn, always she comes to die
leaving those who once did touch her

brittle cold – buried deep as snow…

Intolerance

You know not my history
yet you would destroy me with no prior
proceedings.

My skin matches not your chosen shade
so in the back streets of ignorance
you colour me grey.

I speak not the language of your birth
but I too had a mother and father who
spoke only to me of understanding.

Never would I communicate to you
of war – yet kill me – you would.

There is nothing within in my DNA
that marks me not of human being.

Though in this, self chosen ignorance
you bring your own hate to batter down

my innocent beliefs…

Graffiti On The Train

I think I’ve had enough

gonna get myself a drink
before chiselling out your name
upon the passing subway wall.

You can verbalise me down
send my dreams nowhere bound
along with your, rough edged
explanations –
kicking hard against my reasons.

Why don’t you try to make me stay
plant me flowers – wild sown.
Colour out those visions of scenes once viewed
from dirty, bedroom windows
whilst sleeping all alone.

Call me sometime, filling
in those lost, empty spaces.

Can’t promise to ever pick up
still too busy reading:

Our forgotten
graffiti on the train …

Snapped

The trees suggest
to me of dancers.
Weaving their brittled bones,
skilful on the breeze of winter’s
rebellious motion.

Supple indications, shaping
and shedding – sapping
the act of soon to be springtime’s
rejuvenation.

From such rugged growth to
sway of draping bodies bowed
No cries of encore –
No plaudits please, screech their moans
stricken they, amid
their arching
breaking limbs of woe:

Left now for wasted all
dying in the unkind cold…

 

Poppy Jan 2017~xx~

Searching For Her Monet.

She painted the seasons
outlined a Monet in all of his
most vibrant hours.

Life, had gifted her nothing
outside the slap dash imagery of tragedy
conceptual in it’s primitive need.

She daubed splendour – in full
blown colour
monochrome approval mutilating
her body’s refracted light.

She came tutorial prepared –
drawn into existence:
Always

looking for her creator.