poetry – Page 5 – poems 2 die for

VRAIMENT MR T

what do we have here?

a walking talking
bloated embodiment
of force majeure

impacting us all
driving all and sundry
across the edge of insanity

walking talking
force majeure
(except not
walking so good and
talking
even less good, no
doubt about it)

and force majeure
itself obviously taking
no pride in this embodiment,
as embodiments go

so much of the force
and the majeure
utterly
pissed at all the
roleplay about it

FROM YOU

Tabanda must be old now
remember teaching her

scariest student
ever to come to
the language college

frightening the life
out of
all her middle aged
female teachers

me
just knocked for
six by her beauty

her quiet
kindness, less
than innocent laughter

she must
have become quite old now
hope the war
heading her way does
not touch her

or touch you
my incidental muse
my friend
from a
dead different planet

opposites attracting but
not where
too
opposite

to find, keep,
a connection

I hope this war
stays far away from you

scary threat
to all her middle aged
British

THE POEM ITSELF

structure here
is simplicity itself

dawn to dusk
birth to death

form
following function

maybe
you were lucky
enough to
live a war

even luckier
to have
up down
all turned
around
by revolution

maybe something
was quietly said, was
not felt
but could only
have
been past
on

sealing the deal for
our entire evolution

the poem
     ending
             somewhere
in its music
                   between joy
and far less

form following
function
the structure here
simplicity itself

ALL APIECE

“Seven days in sunny June/long
enough to bloom/ the flowers on that sunbeam dress you wore
in Spring.” Jamiroquai

Can’t believe
they called a flower
“honeysuckle”

begs
the question, what were
they thinking?

that’s real
bower of bliss. midsummer
night’s dream stuff

all apiece
with
lords and, ladies. fairies
and mechanicals doing
their thing
prancing around

which beats
sharing a melting icecream
with Doja Cat and
Slavoj Zizek

fanning myself,
taking a break away from
finding myself
always haunted by
sublime
prospect of
things
before my very eyes
turning from real
to surreal
to hyper-
real

nothing every returning
to braveface the real

as Janet croons
seductively to inform us
regarding
the nature of love and
its, inevitable destiny

must have
been brain dead to
love
as I did for
so many years

can’t believe
they called it “honeysuckle”
to my mind that
for better
or for worse

in sickness or in health,
really takes the cake

MIRAGE

it is too
much for
anyone

we stumble around
unable to see

someone has
switched numbers
someone has
changed the codes

nothing makes sense any more
it seems like soldiers,
armies,
divine leaders

are just
bursting up
out of the ground

if it is
not on a screen, not
been digitally altered,
an obvious lie
we can
no longer believe it

we seek shelter
in the familiar, tried
and tested, first
principles,
things of foundation

but they all
have become
L for
liminal

there is nothing
that is not a mirage

history is a nothing
to see here thing
just walk on by

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MISTER DANIEL

happy birthday
Mister Daniel

bet you thinking
of Paul singing
will you
still need me

will you
still feed me

when I’m sixty
four

which, by my
calculations, you exactly
are at
the stroke of
midnight

but brother love
will be thinking of
you all Daniel day

WITH EVERY DAMNED THING

look what happens
when you put pressure
squeeze everything
you can out
of us ordinary humans

reduce the quality further
of our less, than stellar lives

force us
to turn within
find what
we can all bring
to the party

fish for and
snare
what stories. fables,
myths, legends,
and, dare
I say it?, poetry
that we are sitting on
that we
have always hosted

and, to give
supreme benefit
of the doubt,

try to
touch your heart

believing it not
irredeemable, for
argument’s sake

but of course, as you have
gathered, as we have
always gathered nothing there

bereft of empathy
devoid of
understanding, no
place
for anything but
profit and greed

and a polished ideology
premised on a need
to never let anyone
smell
let alone see (in
all its abject glory) such
ceaseless hypocrisy

at which
revelation

we sigh, close ranks, recite
poems, tell our stories

back to
work
putting pen to paper
hit you with every damned
thing we got

HATCHLING

by no means
profligate
or ultra fertile

I have fathered
(just to offer
a conservative
estimate)
around twenty
thousand children

or perhaps, being
somewhat elapid
in my nature,
I should call
them hatchlings,
think of them
as true
to type, reflections
of my serpentine, often
venomous demeanor

not brown
like the Aussie
brown snake
nor black, death-velvet
mouthed like
our own
dear black mamba

but up with this gang
whose wisdom so far
exceeds what
I can barely
achieve posing
as human

twenty thousand offspring
(and maybe some change)
so don’t
ask their names,
their achievements
and titles
where and how
documented, perhaps
preserved
no hatchling of mine
has any respect
for all yout acadenic hypocrisies
and concerted double dealings

trying to live
their lives, make their way
slither into
your consciouness, root out
rodents and such like

many
killed on the spot
victims of crude misunderstanding

so many
already disappeared, barely
seeing light of day

the odd one, perhaps
even this one (for what
ever rational, logical,
critical, aesthetic reason),
destined to remain

DONALD’S ARGUMENT FROM. DESIGN

DONALD’S ARGUMENT FROM DESIGN

you need mega patience
to run a galaxy
call
all
the executive shots

more still
(we bordering now on infinite)
to dictate governance
across the Universe itself

put in those golden scales
that determine prices
against values
values
against nothingness

we see
how incredible, utterly
magical it is
to master the art
of controlling a relatively
short
lived
smaller space
even if
continental country

home of
the slow
and the brave (no
longer braves)

regimenting every facet
ruling as you divide

pretty much the ideal
God-given can’t wait to
put their marching
boots
on. situation

divinely designed, if
lockjawed in the extreme