The stream (all workshops)
Rain in the Night
It rains in the night
on the old roofs and the wet streets
on the black hills
and on the temples in the dead cities
In the dark I hear the ancestral music of the rain
its ancient footfall its dissolving voice
More rapid than the dreams of men
the rain makes roads through the air
makes trails through the dust
longer than the footstep of men.
Tomorrow we will die
die twice over
Once as individuals
a second time as a species
When All Say
Poetry is too simplistic
Then write,
that which is not.
When you compose
What is too fuckin complicated
Then again straightaway
Confiscate it.
Never mind
What others have to say
They are all going to critique it
In their own imitable way
Accept it if you will
Or else smile,
LOL…
But let the critique,
Not your conscience kill.
Poetry is all about emotions,
In which one is submerged
And
From corrosive thoughts
Errors surface in turn.
She could hear
The doors open
To the car that
Never brings
Good news
Footprints sounded like drums
As clear skies found clouds
She prayed so hard
Hoping it was some mistake
As the bell rang
Her heart quit beating
As she welcomed
Her uninvited guests
The leaves were falling
As the world carried on
For her, this moment
Was discussed before deployment
Every army wife had this talk
Now it was a reality
Not some scenario
I woke bleary
with bamboo towering over my head
I was too weary
to wonder if it would make the world dead.
I climbed out of the back of the van and spewed
last nights Bundie
then I viewed
the wonder of this world
even though in my horrid state
it was all swirled
around.
And lovely.
Part of her is scarred
and she wraps that spot
with scarves, high collars
or extra mascara.
Remnant traces still
ring her shoulder.
Mawkish echoes careen
around her brain.
His self-inflicted torture
spilled over onto her
as his crazed lashes struck her
bone deep.
Musty smells
from those moments
linger
among her nostril mucus.
She carries on,
unable to complete
her forgiveness.
black mould like the rind
midnight
encircling the tub
its wanton encroachment
the gin bottle gleaming
mockery memories
leaning at the window
a fragment vision
the stars wavering
obliterated by tattered clouds
and I think how this
Dusk obsession
consumes me
you receed down hallways
your voice fainter
the chalice beauty
of your one liners
shinning
and the rain
destroys my poems
on sand berms
and dreams
like dust
in windstorms
THE HAGGIS HUNT by Ian Thomson
Close by a big fire, our host fried ham and eggs
“Is that your Ayrshire bacon?” “Naw, heatin’ ma legs!”
We ate then we left the pub for the car park
Where our guide, half-wit Hamish loomed out of the dark
With his good wife, Mad Morag - no beauty (in truth
Some called her Juanita - she’d only one tooth).
Assault with intent
To kill this mind
Ransacked memories
Obliterated dreams
Till nothing is left
But a void
Lulled into
A transient state
Then lurking
Waiting to attack
Still the voices
That cry out for help
Till there is
No conscience thought
Meaningless scraps
Are left in the dust
To be swept away
Through the canyon
That was once
A mind
As I take my final steps
before I rest in peace
I reflect on our lives
and what you meant to me
Through my cloudy cataract
I clearly see you
holding my wrinkled hand
My handsome old man
Through my faulty ears
I can hear you say
“You still look as beautiful
with your lovely grey”
My trembling fingers
won’t let me write much more
But my toothless smile
wants you to know for sure
i gather my sticks and stones
beat around the bush
facing East, then West
bow three times
scrape my knees on the doorstep of persuasion
the attic filled with cobwebbed intrusions of domesticity
but nothing seems out of place,
my basement leaks with water under the foundation
and the walls shout with time cracking through the lifted iris
you purr like a selfish house cat, smug and twitching his whiskers
with pensive appetite,
Pages
(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.