I don't believe in bad omens.
A black cat crossing my path isn't a bringer of poor luck,
otherwise I'd trip down my stairs far more often,
or get whacked by a stealthy sheathed paw
with more dreadful precision when I ascend them.
It's just a game this cat plays,
as if they guard the upstairs to keep intruders out.
I live here, this is my house.
A flock of crows doesn't bring me to fear the day
as old warnings say
they're just dark birds gathering together.
On Autumn days I pretend
they're investigating their ******,
casting wild accusations with their raucous cries,
and the final judgement, no matter the distance,
reaches my ears with clarity
like a church bell tolling when its time to pray.
"Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!"
And what of breaking mirrors?
Mistakes happen, reflective material shatters.
If I let my mind run with that one time
I knocked a mirror over, well I'd
never let go of the damage I caused.
Pieces of an old reflection live within me
embedded in my skin like shrapnel from bombs
dropped on my head,
doesn't matter if I saw them coming.
I could only shelter; never dodge.
No... I don't believe in bad omens.
Or maybe I do
Like shards of glass
The patterns forming a work of art
Shrouded by demons of the past
The black cat saunters over
Tipping salt as he alludes
To the bad luck I can’t dispose of
Rubbing salt into my wounds.
I see an Orthodox priest
A ***** blonde with blue eyes
The people murmur as he passes by
Garlic, they cry,
To fight the psychotic presence
In order to eliminate
This demonic essence.
He blessed an expectant mother
In flat #43
He doesn’t recognise her folly
And leaves her in glee.
A young soldier
One among 3
Died after his cigarette was lit
From the same matchstick
As the clock struck 4
A constant reminder
Of its incessant tick-tock
In spite of the woe
The woman- pregnant no more
Comes to the cemetery threshold
Wishing her late husband
And stillborn boy cheerio.
I look at the sky
There they glide, the harbingers of evil
Thick billed ravens and crows
A symbol of one’s sorrows
Flying over the dead
In search of a feast of despair.
Leaving my new shoes on the table
I kiss my love’s forehead
And point at the rainbow outside
While thinking I’m the luckiest woman alive.
before you’ve even noticed
you’ve outgrown your bed of roses
you’re holding onto omens
keys to doors that never open
you place faith in the wrong gods
black cats hold mass in your street
you let strangers steal your faces
you hear cracks in concrete speak
cross your heart and hope to die
or count your lucky stars
there is no light in this place
only broken mirrors
and black cats
and stairs as doorways.
it is too dark here for any man or monster to ever escape
i’d give you my heart, i think (circle, mitski)
Like the frog of batrachian notes in the inkwell of swamp,
And the bee waggling hieroglyphs to the papyrus of hive,
Like the flight of birds in the palm of radiating skyline,
And the sad might of the world to the caged dog’s eye.
I sit st my desk
stuck with a grotesque
feeling if writer's block
I can tell i'm loosing my stock
so i open my curtain to the window
just before sunrise
As the sunshine peaks
I look at my window
and to my my dismay
i see a charcoal black crow
and it said to me
You reap what you sow
Oh man, I can't stop seeing bad omens.
Flowing, from the empty spaces... pouring.
The blood in my ears is roaring.
I must make clear these notions.
The world whispers and murmurs.
I must be put on earth for a purpose.
Blessing and curses.
Still, I feel worthless.
I listen with the ear of my heart.
See with the eyes of my soul.
Getting closer, yet falling apart.
Will not stop until I achieve my goal.
Yet still I listen, transition and complete my mission.
Fate leads me into the ultimate competition.
Wrists twisted, wits missing, the clock ticking.
You must understand that if I don't try I'll never know what I'm missing.
And for the 5th quatrain, I plead the 5th.
My thoughts cannot be shared directly.
Read the omens with me and see pain's lithe.
Please bear with, I hope you don't wish you'd never met me.
Is all around you, just look and listen.
In rock pools, tiny claws dual over colourful crowns
that were sent across the seas from the Gods.
The deadliest of gems sought for in crustacean kingdoms
Fish hide in bottles and swallow plastic shrimp,
while flotsam and jetsam decorate the shore;
Albatross, guardian bird of the waters
we stopped looking up to you,
we stopped looking behind us to see if you were following
when we could fly higher, fly faster...
Jet power, metal wings, turbo engine.
Our good omens
I cry for all the canaries trapped in coal mines.
While we look for life on Mars
I feel dead on this ship,
but it's still floating, floating...
Written in Autumn 2013
The cave, a discovered diary.
Rock walls, pages of history.
Etchings and markings
A social commentary,
Buried for an eternity.
Lost in a melee
Of storms and hurricanes
And earthquakes shaking.
Depictions of life,
Of civilization in the making.
With muscle and blood,
Signs of existence
Where communities once stood
And thrived on the need
Of food through labours,
The skies, the trees
Their pagan saviours.
Dark rains that poured
Before the construction of Zion,
The shifting of contours,
The shaping of horizons.
Art: the first form
Of true communication.
The observing of omens
Through pictorial narration.
From a time when the promise
Of future was seeded.
Histories left to benefit man
Before possession was borne
And conflict began.
A legacy left, designed by tribes
From an ancient time
For narrators and scribes.
Their duty to record
An ever-changing world
Through parchment and pigment
And the spoken word,
For future species
Of woman and man
To strategise survival,
To project and to plan.
Knowledge more likely
To be buried, interred,
Then discovered too late
For lessons to be learned
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017