Thought the NHS would be heaven.
Now he’s gone, and can’t see (just as well)
How the ConDems have sent it to Hell.
Thought he and Nick Clegg would have fun
Stealing from the poor to pay the bankers.
Pair of wankers.
Rick Santorum –
His name was mocked in almost every online forum
When it was defined
As a sticky frothy mix of – never mind!
Watch this space –
Words will spider-sprawl across it,
With no lines to confine, will twist, turn sideways,
Meet themselves coming the other way;
Will snuggle into secretive corners
Or splash boldly to the very edges.
Words will arrange themselves neatly in sonnets
Or run free-verse wild.
Will mark time
Growing organically in the spaces
Politicians at your door.
Five, six, seven, eight,
You’ve voted for them, it’s too late.
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve,
They’re only in it for themselves.
Notes: A slightly fraught day and I’m tired, so this non-sectarian rhyme in honour of the local elections is the best I can manage.
“Write an elegy.”
I tried. I failed.
At the bus stop, scribbled:
“I should miss you
But you had gone so long before you went
I can’t remember
Exactly what it is I should be missing.”
Rain blots the page, not tears.
Notes: True story.
O singer of Persephone,
Tread softly – I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs,
The lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors.
It’s the thing with feathers –
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
The ashes the burnt roses leave.
The light wraps you in its mortal fire
And this is the sun’s birthday.
Notes: The prompt was to write a cento, a poem made up of lines taken from one or more other poets. The ‘donors’ are, in order, Oscar Wilde, W B Yeats, Maya Angelou, Allen Ginsberg, Robert Frost, Dylan Thomas, [one inserted word – just the tiniest bit of cheating], Emily Dickinson, J R R Tolkien, T S Eliot, Pablo Neruda and E E Cummings.
Hardest vowel for me to lose, you’d guess.
Let’s see – how to suppress
The ego, send the self to sleep.
The plural pronouns, we and us,
The object form, and make no fuss.
The character, erect, that denotes me
As subject – that shall taboo be.
Just for a verse’s length, no more.
That’s hard enough, for sure.
The bodhisattva on the second floor
Crosses her legs with teenage nonchalance.
She does not twist in lotus, full or half,
Rests right foot on left knee, and, comfortable, rides –
Startled, I look anew.
A sofa, surely, or a plumped-up cushion.
Lion, all snarl and barely bridled menace.
Her tiny servitor is maybe anxious,
But she, serene, clasps knee in hands,
Hint of a smile –
Calmly, with compassion,
Observing the cries of the world.
Green shoot breaks through rock.
Flower clings dizzily to roof.
Life finds every place.
Tremble in sunlight.
Rain keeps returning.
Your scattered dreams.
It was the wrong bus to take –
If I’d waited, I’d have missed
The stop-start-stop of threading through the roadworks
And this walk at the other end.
The rucksack’s getting heavier with each step.
Still, it’s not raining yet.
The grass is splotched with dandelions.
They get everywhere.
Dent de lion –
Do lions have yellow teeth then?
Should see a dentist
Or use Pepsodent.
Sparrows bathing in a puddle,
Squabbling loudly –
They don’t mean anything by it.
No cats today, for a wonder –
Lucky for the sparrows.
The plants the council have put in
Are ugly as triffids,
Naked stems thrusting up obscenely.
I’d rather have the dandelions.
Nearly home now.
Ahead, a group of boys
Shout to each other though they’re close enough to touch.
They’re loud, but harmless,
Notes: Not so much a poem as a stream of consciousness.