Imprisoned in some nameless jail
and, like ten thousand inmates pale,
I counted time I could not feel,
I stood on head, and then on heel.

So turn and turn again about,
like other tortured souls I shout;
yet am not heard, my temples pound,
beneath life’s torrents am I drowned!

Ignored am I, like one and all,
save for the early morning call
that shakes us from our torpor, aye,
and then we fall like hail from sky.

Inevitably down through time
we are mere specks, as dust and grime,
yet in our falling purge our sin,
our labours end, then re-begin.

For lost are we within this sphere,
for all eternity, I fear!
A universe where all are ******;
we are the Timer’s grains of sand.

Ponderous, she lumbers on
through frozen wastelands,
shaggy body bejewelled  
with a million icy diamonds.

Keen is the wind,
born in the high peaks
and honed to razor sharpness
over groaning, green-blue glaciers.  

Head raised to bitter skies,
she bellows a mournful, unanswered cry
against distant night-black conifers,
bowed and encrusted with fallen snow.  

Long tusks scrape the ground now
in search of hidden mosses,
for hunger is upon her, and she is
oblivious to the hunters’ approach.  

Squat are these bearded skin-clad men,
hair-matted, breath steaming, gesturing quickly,
moving ever closer, surrounding,
stepping out silently,
flint-tipped spears and arrows poised.  

And then the sudden cry of attack!
Again and again the thud of flint into flesh!
Stone into bone!

Shouting wildly, the hunters
circle rapidly, calling on
their long-dead ancestors
to witness the great shrieking beast
brought down in agony;
until at length they halt exhausted,
their pent up energy spent.

And as the moon rises above the far horizon
an awful silence falls across the bitter wastes.

For it is done,
and the last mammoth
is no more.

Where bright blood flowed
across my carven chest,
I now feel only warm, tropic raindrops.

Feathered priests once stood here,
impassive, clad in gold and feathers,
obsidian knives dripping gore.

And now a bored child sulks,
dragged unwilling to my side
by tourist parents,  kicking at wet pebbles.

Turning to leave, he spits pink
gum into my granite bowl.
Once I would have had his steaming heart.

Glittering wind-chimes cast musical raindrops,
crystals glint magically, rainbows abound.
Ginger cat sits on a sunlit pine staircase
watching his mistress dance, spinning around.

Blue satin ballet shoes, wistful expression,
black chiffon swirls around ivory calves.
Incense suffuses the October morning,
green silken blouse brushes elegant vase.

“Look at Elizabeth!” (timeless, the mantra),
“She’s not quite right, you know, leave her alone!”
School was a nightmare for someone so lovely,
raven dark hair and with skin white as bone.

Cruel the playmates, the gossips, the foolish;
time little alters their ignorant minds.
Not so, Elizabeth! Happy! Intelligent!
She who sees all whilst the rest remain blind.

And so she dances and twirls for the morning,
bliss in her eyes, with the grace of a swan.
Fey is Elizabeth, friend of the Faeries,
She’ll still be dancing when we are all gone.

Across the sunlit summer’s lawn
came a strange, laughing child;
hair tousled, face wreathed in smiles,
china blue eyes shining with true simplicity.

Together they watched her awkward gait,
and pitied her protruding jaw and lips.
They compared notes on her recent behaviour
and yesterday’s strong epileptic seizure.

Angelman sighed sadly and, pocketing his pen,
observed to the medical student:
“It’s tragic how just one abnormal chromosome
can cause such awful blight . . .”

The child came jerkily up to them
still smiling, and as ever bereft of speech.
A tear manifested itself in the doctor’s eye,
as the ‘happy puppet’ began to laugh again.  

Uncontrollably.

Black Jack looks into the distance
where the graveyard trees stand stark.
Cold grey day with drenching drizzle,
fungus grows on rotting bark.
Northern winds they show no pity,
leaves fall through the tomb-damp air;
Jackie pulls his collar up and spits
as passing youngsters stare.

(Spare a thought for Black Jack Garside,
spare a thought for such as him.
Spare a thought for Jackie
when the nights are drawing in.)

Army trenchcoat old and battered,
snake-belt fastened round his waist;
hob-nailed boots and moleskin trousers,
flat cap shields a ***** face.
None could say how old was Jackie,
seemed he’d always been around;
as a babe, an old tale had it,
on a doorstep he’d been found.

Black Jack always was a loner,
trudging through the village streets;
folks said you could smell him coming,
never washed and didn’t speak.
Mothers with their children walking
down the road to village school,
all would cross when Jack approached them,
“Just ignore him, he’s a fool!”

In his house he kept some chickens,
in his bath he kept his coal;
Black Jack burned a constant fire,
lived on eggs and on the dole.
Modern times were not for Jackie,
internet and mobile phones;
with his hens all pecking round him,
Jackie lived and died alone.

And sometimes when drenching drizzle
fills the streets with cold and damp,
teenage kids outside the Offy
throw stones at a passing *****.
Jackie pulls his coat around him,
and as laughing youngsters sneer,
spits a curse of pure wind-chill,
turns and slowly disappears.

(c) Hodgsongs 2018

Johnny was an aphid,
he liked to hang around
with the rest of the guys in green.
Lost in the crowded silence,
staying safe in the shade beneath,
he would seldom be seen.

But now the year is turning,
spring stands aside for summer,
and the Man comes along.
Tidies away the deadwood,
admires the budding roses,
and sings some old song.

Above the larks are soaring,
sun shines in the sky where
some plane leaves a white paper trail.
Gardener takes his shovel,
removing the war-poisoned bodies
of slugs and shelled snails.

And Johnny stirs uneasy,
for him and the rest of the guys
there can be no reprieve.
Insecticide is painless,
and the last thing he sees through
the spray is a falling green leaf.

Johnny was an aphid,
now his body lies with all his
brothers upon the raked loam.
Man turns for the woodshed
Whistling a tune about
‘Johnny Comes Marching Home’.

Pass the mead, friend, see the fires blazing on the hilltop proud;
Watch the horn-men dancing madly, hear the chanting of the crowd!
Smell the wood-smoke, taste the toadstools, greet the spirits of the night,
hail the chieftain, praise his cattle, give your woman full delight!

On the common by the village, peasantry and yeomen race;
who will win the ten gold pieces given by his Lordship’s grace?
On the spit an oxen roasting, minstrels sing without a care;
jousting knights and bowmen aiming, children tease the dancing bear!

See the mighty traction engine gaily painted red and gold;
carousels and big wheel turning, hot punch keeps away the cold.
Showmen with their curled moustaches; bearded ladies, giants, dwarves!
Hear the ***** music playing; freaks and side-shows, cheap gee-gaws!

Slot machines that steal your money, silicon chip siren call,
onions and greasy burgers, throbbing speakers, rip-off stalls!
Young girls hang around the Dodgems, trying to look seventeen,
ogling a tattooed feastie in his oily skin-tight jeans.

Auburn hair falling
plaited with sunlight
from shoulder to waist

Golden torque gleaming
blood-smeared defiant
from chariot throne

Sad grey eyes drifting
seeking lost solace
from face to dead face

Tartan cape blowing
torn and defeated
by men come from Rome

Deep in the wilderness,
hanging around his log cabin like uncertain teenagers,
four black bears await handouts from an old man
clad in a faded chequered shirt.

Each summer he dwells here,
peacefully shunning his own kind
who have long since
deemed him backwoods crazy.

Yet the bears know and tolerate him,
this strange harmless creature who,
year upon turning year, arrives with the green shoots
and departs with the falling leaves.

For theirs is a world of seasons,
and deep in their winter sleep
they sometimes dream of
the curious, pink-faced being
that brings food and stares at them
with glassy, fish-like eyes.

In time they will take their cubs to see him,
as they themselves were once taken,
and will again be comforted
by his sweetly smelling presence.

The bears have a name for him that
cannot be pronounced in human tongue,
for, in their ancient ursine way,
they reciprocate his unquestionable love.