Poems

Near the library
Old man bracing against the wind,slow stroll made even slower. His coat
needs his hands,but so does his hat that keeps escaping his head.Park path
familiar,is a brisk inconvenience. Younger year legs could have coped
better.When statement is thrown to himthrough the breeze, it deflects from
deaf earsand made worse by this element. ‘The winds picking up’it’s
ignored,He pushes on.

 

 

Park Bench This was your favorite spot.I'm sorry I took it up,Bill and
Ina. Pigeons haunt the space under a tree,behind the bench. White, brown
and grey looking plumage. It's you they see not me. You both hold hands
and enjoy the view of an iron bridgeand changing seasons.Wings rise into
the horizon and ascend to heaven. The names will rot away with the bench,
to symbolize a lifetime.

 

Who was the first doctor? Twisting and agitated, shuffling, mumbling,the
doors await a new heaven to face. A floral dress, a smileshimmers and
disappears.All confusion dream state,dead or alive now who’s to know?
Sterile, clinical room adult conversation.Ignored for awhile then ‘hello
friend!’Have a drink,onto your suit.The walls are creepers without
moving.Want to reach for the corners andescape, this block has no exits.
Talk, talk, blank fill, blank fill,off and on, hot cold, here now, gone
then.Lie down, stay still, pinch skin,mum, dad blurred.In gods league?
They’ve come to pack for the next life.Floating wish suspended, see the
situationfrom a diamond perspective. Reality zero, reality what.Pull the
threads and rip the curtain.Under and out.Please help you’re hurting me.
Future use the power people in those fists.For the walls are melting, feet
bleeding.The grass trying to run, slowing down. Past rage illuminating
bedroom,spectacles leaning over the morning after.A rare entrance of
embrace.Stones thrown as hard as possibleacross an empty farmers
field.Start of making sense of all the pills.

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