Abandoned like an unloved pet
just outside the outskirts of Rio
underneath some of the white
washed slums
you told me to wait there
while you went for help,

But of course you never returned
discarding all responsibility
glistening in the moonlight
returning to your car
and driving off like a panic led sprinter
before I realised,

Flying through the night
across Copacabana beach
pressing your hands
on the wheels like Excalibur
rising from the ground
before freezing halfway,

Cut and pasting your fear
with each mile
unsure which way next
across the sea front
towards the edge of the
Sugarloaf Mountain,

Then hiding in the shadows
of the Art Museum
in Sao Paulo,
before then running  
to the booths of
the Se Church in Sao Luis,

Among the Market sellers of
the Porto Allegra Public Market
in Rio Grande do Sol
trading monies for
blankets and hats,
in a vein attempt to disguise yourself

To smaller, less known places
Like all the way down
To Boa Vista
Where your car finally died,
And the Wreck of the Santa Maria
Where you was tempted to hide in

Or hide in the now
dis-used lighthouse
on Morro *****,
and watch the sunrise go up and down
each morning
until you went stir crazy,

Full well knowing
I would caught up with you
sooner or later
no matter
which way you ran

Eventually.

And always the silent smell
Of music follows
Each time his name is mentioned
Never justice,

Covered in ignored pleadings
With pinpointed accuracy
Constantly kicking
The ladder away
From his freedom

Evidence suppressed and misplaced
For 16 years
In cross currents
Of ignored medical reports

Miscarrying justice
And innocence
Constantly brushed
Under the carpets

Drawn back on curtains
Across hospitals
And your bedroom upon release
Which eventually killed you

A terrible crime
With two victims.

After the blast of lightning from the east
A dismal fog hoarse siren howled at dawn
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks
Whispering in my hearth
Sojourning through a southern realm
Halted against the shade of a lost hill
Charged with beauty as a cloud
With bright darkling glows.





(A Poem made up of lines from various Wilfred Own
poems, mostly just first lines and published just
a day or two before Britain declared war on Germany
on 4 August 1914 in tribute to Wilfred Owen,
one of the greatest First World War Poets)

Draining each drop
Her mood didn’t improve
******* up the air
Each time she looked up

Spiralling inside out
Across the wind
At all that
Passed by,

Severed with a
Thread crawling
Slightly behind it
In a deep frustration

Merging with anger
That he’d smiled
At somebody else
That morning.

Due out over weekend - mystery story viva orgami press. anybody who would fancy a advance copy for review purposes let me know.

Hi all;


Had a busy morning today and ended up writing two poems today instead of one and instead of posting just one and dumping the other / cheating tommorrow with it decided to post them both I thought I would share with you.

Also had another excellent guest poem arrive yesterday from Scott Devon, a writer who is partly responsible for me launching a mini collection with Orgami Press probably next month. (More details to follow on that).

http://napowrimo2014.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/part-xxvii-and-xxviii.html


http://napowrimo2014.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/guest-poet-14-scott-devon-out-of-earth.html

On the third day
She clung to the handrails
Near the door
All the way back

Zigzagging in knots
Shining incandescent
With the sun

Chained to a swing
Piled in drifts
Of faces
Marching on and off
Almost invisible
To the way she
Clung herself

Constantly trying
To get my attention
Like tapping on
A ***** window

And only successing
On the way out
Like a feather on the wind
Breathless in an unfinished flight.

(From the ongoing series of 30 ghost poems. Get in contact if you want to read the rest online)