Hunting Season

it’s hunting season again

the butterflies do a moonlight flit

and I’m left with nothing but my mind

 

my mind is full of spiders

waiting like eight-legged gargoyles

for the butterflies to climb the wall

 

but they have already escaped

through the ever widening gaps in reality

and the spiders, oh the spiders

 

dance irish jigs and scottish reels

up and down my bent low spine

 

 

Copyright June 2019

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sans pen sans paper sans hope

i’d really like to write a poem

it wouldn’t have to rhyme

i’d like to write about fear

about ignorance and greed

and that curious ability to decide that someone else deserves no pity or help or respect or even the slightest consideration

about how children are left to starve on cheap empty food and cheap empty television

bare walls and violence and old clothes and shoes

i’d like to complain about religious folk who blame the poor for not being pious enough and that is why¬† god has not delivered food and riches and shelter

conveniently not looking at themselves or inside themselves or anywhere but their bank accounts

i’d really like to write a poem about the stupidity of allowing self centred fools to decide the zeitgeist of now

but i can’t

my poems are sad and have left me alone to rot

sans pen

sans paper

sans hope

 

 

 

Copyright May 2019

I’ve Stopped

I don’t want to read anymore

for the wind blows

and the rain falls on hollow ears

I’ve stopped listening to the trees

 

my skin itches as the ants creep

circumnavigating the house

intent on a mission from gaia or god

I’ve stopped worrying about the ants

 

a single drop of sweat dances

erratically down my right thigh

it’s the humidity, you know, not the heat

I’ve stopped thinking about climate change

 

my heart still beats despite the years

sending blood to lost extremities

my gaze has centred somewhere within

I’ve stopped wishing for better days

 

 

 

Copyright March 2019