The jet- black, coal-smeared dawn
of days afterwards
of starless nights
and moon less nights
of deep dark darkness
thick and sticky
pitch and oil
***** days of charred wood
and ash.                              

That scouring whiteness
that etching acid purity
of white heat metal days
The crisp starched sun-scented
wind sail sheet
smoothed flat peace flag days.
That white marble slab cool  
blanched forensic world
of questions and answers.

The sunset rusty reddening
pain deadening
leeching of the scarlet wash
crimson and vermilion
ruby berries and rose blush
blood tear letting
letting go.

No lead for gold - no alchemy here
No runes or trickery - no book of spells
No steady path of transformation
Just the heavy hollowed wreath
that black, white and red tricolour
of grief.

© M.L.Emmett

This carpet - a Turkish Smyrna -
is made with Gordian knots,
tied by the fine fingers of a child
tied to a loom
by a thin, pale leg.

Every centimetre - a hundred knots
This carpet - two and a half million knots
all Gordian  
tied tightly
by the fine fingers of a child.

Each thread is dyed
with plants
picked by nomad hands
from shifting lands
Henna oranges and Madder reds
Saffron yellows and Indigo blues
Colours bloom and fade
with the change of seasons.

Patterns are centuries old,
never drawn or sketched,
only sung to the young
by the old blind weavers,
who walk the workshops
and the aisles of looms.

In this shadow world
of soured and fetid air
dreamless children
live threadbare under a black sun.

Wide borders holding everything in place
no figures or stories, just a labyrinth
of abstract shape and colour
drawing you in to the treasure
at the centre of the rug.

And the knowledge of the knots
the Gordion knots
tied by the fine fingers of a child
tied to a loom
by a thin, pale leg.

You're only seventeen -
the light seems to shine
right through you,
peach-furred skin
dessicated
drawn in upon itself
- and old.

Your moisture-dewed youth
has evaporated.
It’s been emptied
****** clean
dried and drained.

You reach out
with snappable wrists
Your brittle bones
bulge and bow.

Your ribs vibrate
with every breath
air thrills and ripples
the whole chest cavity.

Your hands and feet
Minnie Mouse big
too big
for the fragile framed
tiny dancer.

Your hips have become
pelvic bone butterflies
that arch and flare out
from your sunken abdomen
concave
and strangely hung
with loose folds of skin.

Your eyes like oases
in the desert of you
cartoon-cute big
but sunken deep
into your head
as if drawing away
from the sight of you.

Just a few more Kilos
and you’ll be gone.

© M.L.Emmett

for Tor Ulven


If you never existed
you wouldn’t be here
reading this poem
it would make no difference
to your life.


When you cease to exist
it will be like you never
heard this poem
it would make no difference
to your death.


Now, while you’re reading
it happens
it snatches a few seconds -
a tiny grasping, clawing animal
furry with letters
sleek with syllables
blocking the way
standing between you
and the next minute.
You can never get it back.

Apparently it’s official
the search for Mr Right
has been abandoned.

After due consideration -
one ***** Cranberry Tonic
two Manhattans -

There’s nothing left to do
but smoke your last cigarette
outside

line up the Tequila shots
with lemon wedges
and salt

and after two hours
of rigorous hip-like-a-**
Beyonce-****-dancing

to loud Techno repe-ti-tive beat
avoiding all football players
and other women dis-respectors

   accept a ride home
with a halfway decent
Mr Right Now.


                       © M.L.Emmett

(inspired by Robert Pinsky)
              
 Morning sun on his face
steady motor murmur
vibrating the hose

Bluebells clamber
over the hill’s top -
nothing to remember

only the same engine noise
that keeps making the same sounds
under his head poised

and pulsing the same beat
no-one to say his name,
no need, no-one to praise him

only the engine’s voice - over
and over, running under him.

© M.L.Emmett