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Paul F Clayton Aug 2012
I can hear voices
Voices from the past
But, only when I'm driving
When I'm driving fast

"It's the wind", said the doctor
"Or a breech in a seal"
"Go home and put your feet up"
"Or go out for a meal"

So, I took the doctor's advice
And intended to go home
I buckled up my seatbelt
Switched off my mobile phone

Then I turned the ignition
This made the engine roar
But, as I started driving
The voices came once more

I could hear the voices
Couldn't tell what they were saying
So, I put my foot down
The car started swaying

Suddenly, I hear them clearly
These voices from the past
They say "climb up from the wreckage"
"And join us at long last"
Paul F Clayton Aug 2012
To my boss, I'd like to dedicate
This jovial kind of poem
though It really turns my stomach
Knowing that I know him

I'd like to feign concern
For all his woes and cares
And pat him firmly, on the back
Atop a flight of stairs

When he goes on holiday
I like to wish him well
And hope he's going somewhere warm
Like the furnaces of Hell

He meets with lots of people
Such as his clients and bookkeeper
Why can't he meet someone new?
Like for instance, "The grim reaper"

If he should pop his mortal coil
That would not make me grieve
The thing that ticks me off the most
Is, he shares the air I breathe

He bores me with his witless jokes
They're no cause for celebration
The only time he'll make me smile
Is at his burial or cremation

Nobody seems to like him
That's not open for debate
I suspect when he's behind closed doors
He likes to … err… fiddle
Paul F Clayton Jul 2012
A young man walks with his head down
Through a town on the outskirts of Hell
Averting his gaze from defeated eyes
For the world and its ways, he knows well

And hope, its flesh rotting in historic corners
Festering with all that ever mattered
And dreams, painstakingly painted on glass
In shards, forgotten and shattered

Oh, the futility of care for tomorrow
Of prayers, aspirations and wishing
And causes constructed of good intent
Discarded, strewn and missing

Yet light still flickers amid black clouds
And sunlight does grace certain places
And there are still those who stand true and proud
And smiles adorn their faces
Paul F Clayton Jul 2012
Born in nineteen thirty five
To reside at "Tick Tock park"
A whole life marred by damaged lungs
Yet, gracious was his heart

Known to his friends as Ginger
This man of arduous health
He possessed an ever-cheery smile
Wit and intellect his wealth

Passionate was he for art
Racehorses, jazz, the Goons
And chrysanthemum had more value
Than mankind racing for the moon

With his water colour paintings
He tried to leave his mark
But alas his dreams were halted
For no mercy has the dark

Of the protagonist of this ode
I shall say only this
My father was a brilliant man
Who I shall always miss
Paul F Clayton Jul 2012
The entity was with him from an early age
She constantly whispered his name
She waited until he was all-alone
Her tone remained the same

Constantly whispering his name
Two or three times a day
She was relentless in her objective
She would not go away

She would call him from the living room
And from the foot of the stair
Always when he was alone
So that others were unaware

Upstairs the voice was different
It came from his parent's room
Accompanied by a flicking paper sound
With an eerie sense of doom

He would dart down the staircase
As fast as his legs would run
And, white-faced, join his family
But never tell anyone

Early one evening he stepped outside
It was dark at that time of year
Something urged him to look up
And he was consumed with fear

A grey white figure scrambled over the roof
He glared at him with hate
What his malicious intent was
He had no idea. He did not wait

A short time later he became gravely ill
He could neither eat nor drink
The pain so engrossed him
That he could not even think

Nurses worked around him
In so much pain was he
He pleaded with the surgeon
"Let it end for me"

Turning his head in resignation
A smiling maternal face he saw
She whispered his name
His consciousness was no more

After the surgeon's success
He was relieved of any pain
And never more would he hear the voice
Whispering his name
Paul F Clayton Jul 2012
In the centre of the ruins
A carved stone creature stands
His mighty beak is open
As are the talons on his hands

The muscles on his chest are taut
His wings spread on his back
His legs are so positioned
As if ready for attack

He stands upon a pedestal
Struggling with the clinging vine
A witness to civilisation gone
He has withstood the test of time

His stare is across the ruins
Toward an ancient obelisk
Which somehow might be linked
To the mighty basilisk

If the basilisk could talk
What tales he could tell
Of generations of mortals
And of how the city fell
Paul F Clayton Jul 2012
Devoid of any memory
In the cold dark void so black
No reason to go forward
No yearning to go back

Teachings of a lifetime gone
Wasted on a soul
An aimless wandering spirit
No dreams or fears or goal

Experiences a world away
Scattered on the breeze
A spirit does not comprehend
Hardship pains or ease
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