"beanpole" poems
Stiff, stiff as some barren tree
You stand,
A Greek goddess carved from cold marble,
Stark and white as an eye.
Where is the blood, the rose-colored flesh?
Some savage thing has eaten away
At all the softness. There is but tooth left,
Gleaming all over—pale, blank, and paltry.
Have all the world's mothers left you to dry?—
Mothers like the one that once slumbered in you?
It is shriveled with you now,
Your face, a sunken visage.
Wavering beanpole, you let your hair
Into the wind and stumble over nothing,
Nothing, all this nothingness!
Your body, your cheeks are bitten fruits,
The apple gone. This frame is but a filament,
A thing half-seen,
A crescent etched from this moon.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
I'm
not
afraid
to fall
in love
again
I just
don't
want
to
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
I am with Janice
on a bomb site
off Harper Road,
climbing along
a narrow flooring
like two wire walkers,
hands outstretched,
balancing with
childlike skill.
Benny is it
safe to walk?
she says.
No,
but if you're careful
you won't fall,
I say,
moving slightly
more to one way.
There's the smell
of damp wood
and bricks
and *****
around us.
We reach the other side
of the bombed out room
and stand looking back
the way we'd come.
Rozzers,
a voice of a fellow kid
calls out,
he clambers off
and away.
Janice and I
climb down and out
and see the rozzer
standing with hands
on hips and helmet
pushed back
on his head.
Bomb sites
are out of bounds,
he says,
stern faced,
eyes staring.
Didn't know,
I say.
Janice large eyed
and fearful,
says nothing.
Well it is
out of bounds,
what's your names?
the rozzer says.
The other kid says,
Michael Mouse,
another says,
Daniel Dare,
and say,
I don't remember.
The rozzer slaps
my face and says,
what's your name?
Janice is tearful
and clutches her hands,
thinking if her gran
found out
her arse'd
be slapped.
Benny Beanpole,
I say,
trying to keep
a straight face,
cheek stinging,
eyes glaring.
The rozzer doesn't ask
Janice her name,
he stares at me
and the other kids
and says,
get off and sling
your hook.
We look at each other
and saunter off.
Janice grips my hand
as we walk off
the bombed out land.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC
trembling roars make timber
shiver by the bank
and Beanpole stands contemplating
he'd be doing the right thing for the wrong reasons
Nov 14, 2020
Nov 14, 2020 at 8:48 AM UTC