Friday, 19 December 2014

This Poem (Tears )

                          is
                     silence.
                      (tears)
                                                   Is
                                                  not
                                                about
                                                (tears)
how
can this
 happen?
(tears)
                             who 
                            would
                       do this thing?
                                 (tears)
                                                        and
                                                      whose
                                                  Allah would
                                                 sanction this?
                                                                  (tears)
            is
           not
         about
         crying
       shouting
         (tears)
                                     re
                                   intro
                                  ducing
                                execution 
                                  (tears)
only 
silence
profound
(tears)
                                               deep
                                             sadness
                                         at the shame
                                       of all humankind
                                              (tears)
                                for
                              which
                          there are no
                        words that can
                    express true sorrow.
                           only tears




Monday, 15 December 2014

The Huntsman


Sometimes, eyes closed, I think
of feathers, scales, bloody fur.

Wet woodland gun stands
edging the sweet chestnuts
on Willy Roberts'
rough shooting land.

Or split cane Hardy,
tied flies, hat, tweed;
the paraphernalia
of catch and release.

Rain down the back
of olive waxed jackets;
the whirr of game birds,
propellant pungency,
the kick of twelve bore.

Crawling on river banks,
keeping flat to plop a fly
between overhanging limbs
and bait a limpid pool
where unknown Brownies lie.

levelling a rifle
at a rabbit's eye
to claim a carcass
for the kitchen pot.
Skinned and drawn while hot.

Now I hunt phrases;
trap words on the web,
capture essence.
I chase remembered feelings,
as they carve away
                    like winter hares
                              on an iron day.

Tuesday, 2 December 2014

Diplopodology


When I see a millipede
it always makes me wonder:
such a loooong bendy body
with loads of legs down under...
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Wednesday, 19 November 2014

The Hands of Power









She had a pair of hands -
she kept them in a box,
the hands were very strong,
she secured them with locks.
But when she took them out
she would play with them at length,
feel their capabilities,
marvel at their strength.
The hands in turn were kind,
they would stroke her in the sun,
flitter on her clitoris,
quickly make her come.

But time passes feelings change,
she grew weary of this toy,
she looked for different pleasures,
sought fruits forbidden to enjoy.
So she took her pair of hands
and she placed them in their keep,
she never said 'farewell, adieu'
she just left them there to sleep.
And in the darkness of their box
the hands grew flabby, limp and pale,
the fingers probed to find the locks,
they ached and twisted in their jail.

She had some guests for dinner,
they spoke of this and talked of that
and as the wine flowed copiously
so lewdness entered in their chat.
"I had a secret love" she said
to a room of widening eyes,
"a pair of hands - and not my own
- that kept me satisfied".
"Who was this love?"
they begged to know,
Was he handsome, was he tall,
was it someone known to them?
Quickly now she must tell all.
She put her finger to her lips,
she left the company,
when she returned the air was thick,
all eyes watched on excitedly.

Her rusty keys were like a jailor's,
she forced and turned the aging clasps,
within the box the hands were flexing,
exercising their mighty grasp.
The lid came up and there they were,
her mouth dropped open at the sight,
instead of tanned and muscled hands,
these looked fat and weak and white.
Nobody spoke, nobody moved,
each beating heart they all could hear,
she touched the hands: they sprang to life;
the watching group recoiled in fear.
They moved as one straight up her arms,
embraced together round her throat,
the company screamed and fell apart,
their hostess rolled her eyes and choked.
She crashed across the crockery,
the hedonists with fright had fled,
the hands squeezed out her gasping life
and left her on the table dead!

Now you may take a point of view,
with vice like hands around her neck,
she died from vice, as addicts do:
I say she died for her neglect.
A good thing left will turn to bad,
the sweetness soons begins to sour,
the strength of love corrupted
turns to evil in....the Hands of Power!



c. Marc Woodward

Tuesday, 18 November 2014

Hairy Arsed Red Cattle



once came here to moo and amble.
Their flat capped, coated men
carried staves and shouted at
the milling cows about them
with their father's calls,
while floral-pinnied wives
brought dawn baked bread
to morning market stalls.

              You can still see photographs
              nailed up on Sports Bar walls
              such as The Farmer's Arms
              and Ye Olde Red Cow,
              all wide screen, fruit machine,
              Wetherspoon houses now.

Those people bought commodities
in musty hardware stores long gone.
Livestock ointments, farm oddities,
coloured bottles with "Poison" on.

            But then, his coat tied up with string,
            I dream a cider orchard boy
            inside the high street Apple Store
            open mouthed, lost; bewildering.





Grid Poem (We need unique things)

Consolidated.jpg


Sometimes I think you call to me
from an entirely other place.
A world where red rocks scorch our thoughts;
where you spin at a different pace.

Still I would shower you with gifts.
You want water; I proffer cash
grovelling with impure trinkets:
uncovering my guilt edged trash.

Where I'm from the water untruths.
It hides as ice in vodka, sipped
by totem pussies playing with
weakness on sour painted lips.

We are tricked by roles in this life:
identity ploys. Open  beak,
little birdie. I have no knife.
I came to listen to you speak.

And when the final war erupts
we'll parachute between wagtails
into oceans of sea monsters;
learn how even planets are frail.

Last night I dreamed of high ramparts:
the last castle where we might hide.
My ancestors came from that heart.
Now the sky exhumes their insides.



( contribution to pictorial grid poem project at Poetrycircle.com selected as 'Featured Work' 11/14)

Sunday, 16 November 2014

Sing of the mountain,


 not
 of height 
 or grandeur,
wide eyed windy views
and tumbling scree strewn
slopes under sky bake blue.
Instead - dark woods below;
the long-hour to slow-yard ratio.
Billhook slice, shoulder slung gun,
the grab of foliage, head-duck to rabbit run,
sense of direction reduced to up-lean down-lean,
nothing but three foot scope and compass whirl between.
"I'm going back to the mountain, growing up on the mountain,
digging down on the mountain..." They're telling of tangled isolation,
dirt learnt lessons, snowstorm log splitting, talk of "strangers among us",
dog-in-the-thicket thoughts, the under heel stick-crack, bloody beefsteak fungus
on fallen chestnut, land slipped bend in the track, the unseen green around that bend.
Flicker in corner of eye. Imprisoned in rowan, ash and elder - a rusting hulk that'll not mend.
Knowing that weight and bulk is always there, unchanging; and the children of the mountain are tough,
twisted in bindweed and creeper. And then the wolf-owl night. As if the dense days weren't dark enough.









Monday, 10 November 2014

Poppies



If poppies grew uncontrolled
and choking not on wasteland
but on the walls, doors, machinery
of armaments factories;
not in a fake haemorrhage 
around historic buildings
but on the benches of parliaments;
if they crowded into disuse such places 
where wars are dreamt and manufactured,
then there would be no need
to stand up straight,
pin scarlet paper on our chests,
listen to politicians sermonise 
- then watch those 
same swift hypocrites forget.


 

Published 11/11/14 at http://poetry-24.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/poppies.html





 

Monday, 3 November 2014

Wipers



Sometimes he writes for no reason.

Yeah,  you think,  I've seen the type.
Drunk late at night, bottle drained,
some fuzzy lexicon scrabbled in his brain.

You'd be wrong.
Last week when he was sane
and fully sober he just took off in his car.
Parked up near a Little Chef
by the Burrator reservoir
and wrote.
He told me it was mostly crap.

Other cars had tired salesmen
sleeping off lunch
with an afternoon nap.

Is this how inspiration comes?
The long, silent drive
with no place to go.
Meter set by the slap
of windscreen wipers
knocking rain to and fro...

He showed me his pad.
The ink was smudged
and wrinkled by raindrops.

I said he should keep the window closed.
He said it rains everywhere.
He thought I'd know.



First Published on 'Ink Sweat & Tears'  2/11/2014
http://www.inksweatandtears.co.uk/pages/?p=7571 


Autumn Tanka


For all that we leave
by our choice or through our loss,
Spring comes to remake.
Aspens scatter promises
prayer flags tremble by the lake.




Monday, 20 October 2014

The Glass Blower's Dream


She turns the melting glass
over a yellow candle flame.
It takes a steady hand
and the patience of prison chains.

As each slow drip loosens
she draws thin legs from crystal wire.
Through candles, sand and time
she pulls unicorns out of fire.