Sunday, 31 July 2016

Caged

It’s pleasant enough 
wandering these pathways
flanked by the tall rectangular cages, 
each protected by a steel door
with a security code.

Even pleasanter later, 
when the cages become 
walled enclosures of decorative brick, 
surrounding green spaces.
Intricate metal gates protect them
with a security code.

Occasionally a creature may emerge,
sometimes with barred teeth
and raised claws.
But mostly looking sad 
and out of condition.
Lost inside themselves.
Poor things.
Lost souls
searching.

Mostly though, I encounter them outside.
Moving purposefully to a destination,
not free to take random pathways, like me.
Or desperately heading back to their cages,
hoping there is no diversion 
which may leave them lost.
Leave them to encounter the
terror of the unforeseen
circumstances 
that might arise
from freedom.
Freedom 
to be lost.

Poor things.
Lost souls
in or out 
of their
zoo.

http://www.highpoint.edu/library/files/2016/06/2016-Apogee-Spring.pdf

Friday, 29 July 2016

How Will I Know You
How will I know you,
the man behind the mask.
I can recognise you
with the mask in place.
And sometimes it may slip and reveal ....
another layer, another mask, perhaps
masquerading as an unguarded comment
wearing stage clothes, even if naked.
You are in there somewhere.
But even though I peel off
layer after layer,
uncover
mystery after mystery
I still never find you.

First Published in Firewords Quarterly, Issue 6, 2016

Thursday, 28 July 2016

                            Through the Glass

Alice saw herself in her looking glass
and walked through
into a topsy turvy world where
everything was back to front and inside out.
She drifted into a dreamscape
of madness and unreality, 
without breaking the glass.
Uncut by the shards of her mirror 
or the place she entered into.
She had only to wake to make 
things the right way round again.

But walking through a clear glass,
a transparent window,
it would have been different.
Her reflection would float 
towards a place where everything 
seemed the right way round.
Where everything made sense

and added up sweet with reason.
A place without madness,
which looked easy to enter
and had no sharp edges.
Apparently.

But this glass forms an invisible barrier
to the other side and the life
that seduces and entices her.
And to get through she has to break the glass,
whose sharp edges cut her
and propel her crazily into a place
where she cannot wake.
A jagged, topsy turvy place 
where everything spins round wildly.
Where caricatures of humanity scream out
trying to make sense of it.

Front to back and outside in.
Everything is the wrong way round again.



Published in Silver Birch Press 2015 and Anomalie

http://www.versewrights.com/

Tuesday, 26 July 2016

VEILED

I wear my hair
like a veil
covering all.
Covering all that
is not already covered
and needs to be,
they insist.
But it is not enough.
I can still see 
when it parts
and still be seen.
I can still move
freely.
It is not enough,
they insist.
I need the mask
of the broad, blue
blindfold
to tether me,
they insist.
And I wonder,
will this be enough?


98

http://visualverse.org/
First published in Visual Verse, July 2016

Monday, 25 July 2016

Miss Pass

My first best friend was Susan.
We were inseparable.
Soon we would be starting school.
Starting at the same school.
It shouldn't be a problem.
But Susan was three months older
and this was a problem.
She must start earlier
and we would be parted.
Unthinkable!!
Such concern from our parents.
But all was well.
It wouldn't be a problem.
And all thanks to Miss Pass,
the headmistress,
a wonderful woman
who understood the feelings 
of small children.
We could start together
and in the same class.
She was a shining example 
to teachers everywhere.
We knew it as we hung our coats
on pegs next to each other
in the cloakroom.

But a few days later 
when we had settled in,
disaster struck.
We were to be in different classes.
Such tears and trauma
as we hugged and kissed
and said goodbye at our pegs
in the cloakroom
each morning and afternoon.
And all because of Miss Pass,
the headmistress,
a stupid woman
who had no idea about the feelings
of small children
and should never have been allowed
to be a teacher anywhere.
We knew it as we hung our coats
on pegs next to each other
in the cloakroom.





- See more at: http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6305#sthash.y92oq327.dpuf

Saturday, 23 July 2016

Every Breath

It's interesting to consider that
every breath I take
has already been breathed by
someone else,
another person or creature.
Been part of their breath.
Perhaps that dog over there, 
smelly and hairy, 
licking it's own arse.

I would prefer not to have 
molecules of oxygen from it's breath
entering my blood stream, 
giving me life.
But there's nothing
I can do about it.
Have to take what comes.
Breath the air that's there
wherever it's been before.
Rebellion is not an option.


https://www.ucm.es/…/…/docs/119-2016-07-07-JACLR%204.1.L.pdf

Thursday, 21 July 2016

Sweet Heart

He’d seen it glint earlier
when a shaft of light hit
the open box.
He kept watch till they left.
Back now, still watchful.
Turn his head this way,
then that. 
No cats.
No humans.
Upturned the box 
and seized his prize
glinting gold among the dull
browns and creams.
Carried it off.
Then carried it home,
a home now fit for his new lover,
his sweet heart.
But he didn’t unwrap it.
Didn’t discover the greater prize
lying under the surface glitter.
Didn’t find the jewel 
of sweetness in the centre.
Soon life dulled the surface glitter,
screwed it up.
And  the sweet heart 
melted in the warmth,
Melted into sticky goo.
Melted away as
sweet hearts do.


First published in Harbinger Asylum, Literary Review, October, 2015

Wednesday, 20 July 2016

Excuse Me

The bus didn’t come.
The dog ate the cat.
The bath overflowed.
The egg exploded
in the pan.
It’s too hot to go out,
or too cold.
I’ve a pain in my head,
or my arse,
or my nose.
Excuses.
Excuses.
Please,
no more
excuses.
You don’t like your work,
or your spouse,
or your life.
But
no more excuses,
please no more
excuses.
You can
change all or some.
refocus what’s left.
But,
no more
excuses.
Please
no more
excuses,
excuses.
excuses.


https://www.ucm.es/…/…/docs/119-2016-07-07-JACLR%204.1.L.pdf

Tuesday, 19 July 2016

Wild Fruit

I like the wild berries best.
Juice spilling over.
Bursting,
staining my tongue purple
or my lips red.
Each one a new sensation.
A little harder to come by,
than the bland clones,
the cultivars.
A bit more of a struggle.
And, it must be said,
not always sweet.
One never knows
with these wild fruits.
With each taste comes
a surprise.
Spit out the sour,
take in the sweet.
Such joy!
Oh yes!
the wild berries are the best.

http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/wild-fruit-by-lynn-white-wales.html

Monday, 18 July 2016

      Soundtrack

The music of my youth still sings to me.
Inside my head it still plays Dylan and Baez
as part of our song, our time, our places. 
Subversive music, coming from the streets.
Out of tune with the surround sound monotone.
Undermining it with a discordant challenge.

Harmony and discord, 
the songs of peace and love
sitting side by side with war and revolution.
Then as now they still speak to us, 
still sing in tune
The lyrical passion of the words, 
the movement music of  the songs, 
has crossed our time and space.
Melodies of movement 
which still can break our boundaries
and join us back together.
Moving rhythms which still excite
and words which dance for us.

These moving patterns on a page,
have make different music now,  
wrapped in our emotions and melodies
which have few boundaries 
and are timeless and placeless 
when in tune with changing times,

which for us, can be any time at all.


https://www.amazon.com/Poetic-Melodies-D-B-Hall/dp/0692739750/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1467208784&sr=8-2&keywords=Creative+Talents+Unleashed

Sunday, 17 July 2016

Sunshine and Shadows


There are black clouds lingering over me.
Casting shadows.
Even though
there’s a big red sun above 
shinning down on me.
Warming my face.
Caressing me.
reminding me of other sunshine days
when the rays beamed more sweetly.
The clouds make today too close,
too hot,
yesterday too far away.
And the rays are stabbing me sharply.
Hurting me.
No longer warm and sweet
but hot and sour. 
Piercing me. 
Cutting me like icy splinters.
Because there’s cold there as well,
coming from somewhere.

This sun is too bright for me to see clearly,
too red and swollen,
like my eyes feel now.
Heavy.
Black with shadows.
So I’m waiting for the rain to fall.
Fall away.
Drop by drop until they’re empty and cold.
And I’m waiting for more cold days to come.

And I’m waiting for the empty clouds to pass 
and the sun to shine again
and warm me

Friday, 15 July 2016

In The End

In the end 
I’ll be like you.
Dust with
flakes of skin and bone
wrapped in long hair.
Teeth chattering
With no voice.
No sense of taste
or smell.
No reason.
In the end
we'll be invisible,
impenetrable,
anonymous,
figments.
But then, we always were
you and I,
we always were.

http://www.magzter.com/ZA/MPA-Publishing/Ealain/Art/

Thursday, 14 July 2016

The Breathing Days

In the days when I still breathed,
the days before 
living took my breath away,
the days before 
I knew my soul was there.
I thought about this time,
this time of no light,
the forever night time
with no breath, no air 
to breathe.
Just dust and darkness.

And I pondered.

Would there be slow decay 
or fast.
Stillness or movement.
Now I know.
I know everything about
the dust and darkness.
But I can't tell you.
Not now
in these days 
of no breath, 
no air
to speak.
Only my soul can speak.
Can you hear me?


First published in Fragments of Chiaroscuro, July 2016

https://issuu.com/fragmentsofchiaroscuro/docs/fragments03_v07

Wednesday, 13 July 2016

English Language
Times change and language changes with them.
Lost now is the singularity of the second person,
recognisably archaic and unmourned in our time,
but controversial and contested as it declined.
Many heads were shaken at this innovation
in communication.

Words change in meaning, and in emphasis
so extreme obscenities become modest curses,
part of everyday speech and then positive adjectives
as time passes.

Sentences can now begin with ‘and’ and ‘but’
and no longer need to have a verb inside them.
So, new devices for emphasis and meaning form
as language and literature renews themselves,
clearly legible.

Commas can come before ‘and’ and
confusing apostrophes are dying out.
Colons and semi-colons are under threat.
They have lost their way with new generations.
The dustbin of history is open for them
to enter.

There they will join the ‘thous’, ‘alacks’ and ‘gazooks’
of our past, to be only remembered by scholars.
But relax, chill, German has already lost it’s future.
English may be next,
and these losses will also be mourned
by no one in our future.

Tuesday, 12 July 2016

Michel

Traveling through northern France
with Michel driving.
The Beatles singing on the radio,
“Michelle, my belle”.
A sky of uniform grey,
dark, dark grey.
And then,
a surprise rainbow.
And then,
to one side,
a helicopter 
outlined black.
Mosquito like.
Black.
And then,
I bottled it.
I can still remember.

First published by Silver Birch Press, Perfect Vacation Series, August 2015

http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poetry-summer-nostalgia

Saturday, 9 July 2016

Beauty Parlour

Step inside my parlour,
my pampering parlour. 
You will be remade, reborn,
stroked and smoothed,
petted and prodded,
cosseted and curled,
given the attention you deserve
as well as a new face
and shiny new hair.

In Pampers Parlour we’ll recreate you.
We’ll reboot your confidence
and give you a new chemistry
as we gloss your hair and lips.
As we shape your face
with new shadows and glows.
As we apply layer upon layer
of chemical shit topped by
nose retching fragrances.
You won’t know yourself when 
you step outside 
dolled up to perfection,
protected in your new mask.

And what then?
Will you go home 
and comb it all out
and wash it all off,
preferring, 
after all, 
the person,
with the old skin
and fresh air colour
to the new robotic doll.
The pampers product is 
designed to be disposable, 
after all.

Or will you keep it 
as long as you can..
Try not to move your new face.
Try not to upset your new hair.
Place a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign
on your forehead.
Keep it as long as you can.
Even if stinky and crusty,

you’ll still have your face on.


https://guidetokulchur.com/all-titles/

Friday, 8 July 2016

Beached

He’s standing on the beach
with a small suitcase.
Not sure if he’s coming or going,
if it’s an arrival or departure.
It’s unclear.
It’s unclear
if the suitcase is full 
or if it’s empty.
Once he packed it full
of his dreams, but now
it’s unclear
if any remain.

If any remain caught
in the lining, perhaps.
Or if all have been carried away
and are gone forever on a storm tide,
or washed up and buried in the sand.
It’s unclear.

All that is clear
is the emptiness 
of a long horizon.


http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poetry-summer-nostalgia

Thursday, 7 July 2016

                 Harmony

We began so well, so in tune,
catching the notes dropped by angels
and playing with them before they fell,
creating a perfect harmony.

But then, we started to miss a few notes
which fell, crashing into our rhythms,
disrupting the flow of our music, 
upsetting our harmony.

Just a few at first, 
but they violated our space,
causing us to miss our step and
almost fall ourselves.

Then, bar after bar came tumbling down.
Cascades of discords raining down between us.
No longer dropped by angels. 
Surely not?

Now we are finished and falling tunelessly.
Lost.
Loudly separated by discords.
Floundering in the storm.
Our past melodies out of reach,
devoid of  harmony.


https://www.amazon.com/Poetic-Melodies-D-B-Hall/dp/0692739750/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1467208784&sr=8-2&keywords=Creative+Talents+Unleashed

Tuesday, 5 July 2016

       Soundtrack

The music of my youth still sings to me.
Inside my head it still plays Dylan and Baez
as part of our song, our time, our places. 
Subversive music, coming from the streets.
Out of tune with the surround sound monotone.
Undermining it with a discordant challenge.

Harmony and discord, 
the songs of peace and love
sitting side by side with war and revolution.
Then as now they still speak to us, 
still sing in tune
The lyrical passion of the words, 
the movement music of  the songs, 
has crossed our time and space.
Melodies of movement 
which still can break our boundaries
and join us back together.
Moving rhythms which still excite
and words which dance for us.

These moving patterns on a page,
have make different music now,  
wrapped in our emotions and melodies
which have few boundaries 
and are timeless and placeless 
when in tune with changing times,
which for us, can be any time at all.

First published by Amomancies, Americana issue, 2015

https://www.amazon.com/Poetic-Melodies-D-B-Ha…/…/ref=sr_1_2…

Sunday, 3 July 2016

        Don’t Go


When I’m with you
I feel I am whole.
Captured and completed.
Engulfed by you.
When you kiss me
all my fears disappear
in the kiss.
Where do they go?
I don’t know.
Do you wrap them round your tongue
and swallow them whole?
I don’t know.
I only know the comfort
I feel, such peace.
So don’t go.
Don’t go.
Please,
don’t
go.


http://montykessler.wix.com/http#!love-poems/c184j