"storey" poems
Rugby town, of landlocked streets,
of wasted field and barefaced retreat;
I miss you now, in absence of a friend,
I miss you now, in the verse that I lend.
Suburb grove, of sleepy mist,
oh, battered housewife, oh blastocyst;
you will remain in place forevermore,
and forevermore, you'll become a bore.
Holding cell, of sporting fame,
you stole my dreams but gave me my name;
I think of you: a multi-storey view,
of happy faces, of which there is few.
Still, my town, in debt's nightgown,
the shop-fronts vacate, we're feeling down;
these streets are poisoned with names of the past,
each memoir to teach: nothing's built to last
Rugby town, of weary folk,
the private school is a private joke;
I miss you now, as I sleep through the day,
I miss the old walks, and all that you'd say.
Old market town, the aftermath,
of British summer, suicide bath;
of open mics and closing the shutters,
of waking graveyards, sleeping in gutters.
Hopeless climbs, of dreary times,
of childhood state and nursery rhymes;
each time that I come home, I know you less,
becoming a stranger in my redress.
Clock tower, chiming, chiming loud,
singing for history long and proud;
of Rupert Brooke and the question: “what if?”
What if I was born to some lover's tiff?
To some large and friendless town,
to some body of land, which I drown;
to some active place of pain unknown,
to some place that I'll not gauge that I've grown,
oh Rugby dear, stay with me,
let me live on the periphery;
and although this town seems terribly dull,
it could be worse – I could live in Hull.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
Brackets
Your mum picked you up in daddy’s BMW,
we had to wait an hour while they scrubbed the brains of another son off the roof of the 125
(Why they built a multi storey car park on top of the bus station is a mystery to me.)
You carefully colour coordinated your files and scrutinized your revision schedules,
we watched nicked CCTV footage of two blokes smoking crack and burning down the bowling pavilion next door
(the old boys never did raise enough to repair it.)
You snubbed each other because of different tastes in jumpers,
we watched acid casualties talk politics with football hooligans
(a hastily rolled joint bridged the obvious gap.)
You lounged in the common room in your study periods,
our lesson got cancelled because John had been smashed in the face with a fire extinguisher
(and our tutor used to be a lifeguard.)
You worried about fashion and discussed the injustice of last night’s X Factor result,
we watched Neil’s head crash into his keyboard after he’d scoffed all his methadone in one go
(again.)
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
From a fifth storey bachelor’s window
pondering shadows in the car park below,
Johnny opens another can.
I stuff another pipe.
We talk about our trip to Brazil
and how great it would’ve been had we gone;
Johnny turns up the radio.
I take the first drag.
Old girlfriends swing by in our conversation,
most of them giving us the finger, mind you;
Johnny dabs at his tears.
I pass him the pipe.
Dusk-scalpels are slicing through the curtains now,
they scrape over coffee table dust,
through Irish coffee stains,
cut open Johnny’s frown:
The neighbours are at it again, arguing;
he accuses her of seeing someone else,
she tells him *correct,
it’s your ****** sister.*
Johnny taps out the pipe in the ashtray,
says he has to do someone a favour;
throws on his jacket,
says take it easy.
Johnny’s shadow tiptoes into evening,
a car alarm screams and a gunshot cries.
I convince myself
this is Brazil.
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 7:59 PM UTC
a real estate agent
is the person to talk to
if you want a house
with a nice ocean view
listings of these kind
of properties are rare
there's not many on the market
which isn't very fair
residing on the scenic
North Carolina coastline
would most definitely
be ever so divine
as the sun rises
I'd look out over the bay
to catch a glimpse
of the yachts sailing away
upon my two storey deck
I'd read a book
whilst partaking of a serving
of salad and roasted chook
I'll be on the phone
to the realtor this afternoon
so he can line up a sale
for me pretty soon
near the seaside
is where I want to nest
living in a bush locale
isn't all the best
to smell the sea breeze
wafting o'er my yard
that would be a fabulous
tip top draw card
where the brine rushes
into the sandy shore
I'd so love to be situated
there forevermore
my pots and pans are packed
and ready to go
I'm just waiting to hear
from the realtor Mr Row
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
I romanticize humanity until what's left isn't even human.
I cook up fallacies about legal aliens and add a dash of cumin.
Your chef tosses salads in the pasta section of the grocery store.
Devil's just as confused, with a ***** and an apology at heaven's door.
You don't know, and no one cares where eggs go when they die.
Godzilla thinks of a car full of clowns like you would a sardine pie.
What happens when an elephant gets alzheimer's and loses keys?
Does the paradox consume an entire circus of trapeze-act-fleas?
I ruin birthday cakes by blowing off the frosting instead of the flames.
How I do that? Count backwards from backwards and say my names.
Bittersweet love anthems pollute the brains of conscientious dames.
Heavy metal doesn't pollute, it pacifies rage quitting from soul-sucking games.
Out of the woodwork comes a limp ***** that would work,
Long hours only to find he'd pay millions for a Miley Cyrus twerk,
Which is worth about as much as an all-female circle ****
Unless you add strap-ons, so strap in and lap up the knee-jerk-smirk.
It is unwise to handle scissors when one is being cutting-edge,
Because your accountants will dangle themselves off of a three-storey ledge,
When you cut up the ledgers and make light of, that is, burn, the evidence of pledge,
To the monkeys in your think-tank mailing feces to the upstart farmer's hedge.
Now I know you're sick of rhyming and of poems and of liver culling whisky,
But I must inform you of a pirate's missing eye, I've bought sight of something risky,
I implore that when this song and dance is done, you'll assuredly miss me,
Because I've told you everything about depravity, hence forth you must kiss me.
Beacons of hope shine much like cantankerous silver in the moonlight.
If you're a werewolf that will fill you with hope and with immeasurable fright.
One day the world will admit that I'm awesome and impoverished to boot,
Because when the song and dance is done, what's left is just an ounce of loot.
Jul 20, 2022
Jul 20, 2022 at 9:28 PM UTC
we let go
we surrender
we make no sound
just a gentle whisper
as we fall down to the ground
winter's coming
our job is done
another passing summer glory
now our work is in the under storey
we keep our date
with bugs and microbes
and all the little litter critters
feed them in their life of toil
helping to enrich our deep dark nubile soil
when the weather warms
season's storms have passed
our winter's work will bear good fruit
as leaves come out again at last
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
The cold festive wind blew;
Laughters, hollers of "Merry Christmas!"
Came along with the breeze.
Children, with their little toy drums
Bang, bang, banging away;
Choruses of "Gloria In Excelsis Deo";
Pine trees, Snow flakes, deformed Snowmen;
Houses are lined with
Blink, blink, blinking
Colorful lights and wreaths;
Somwhere among them,
in some living room,
"All I Want For Christmas" is on loop;
Cookies are laid for Santa Claus;
Presents are stacked
Under the Christmas tree--
With garlands and *****
And--
The Christmas lights
In a room in the middle of a second storey house,
Were shining as brightly as they could,
Being wrapped around the neck
Of a teenager misunderstood,
Hanging lifeless on the ceiling
With a note pinned that read,
"Happy Christmas from the dead."
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
On high and in whole looms a glimmering globe
On a mountain of cloud, on her wintery throne
Diana every man has known
From there she casts her ashen glory
Upon my buildings highest storey
From there and paired with stars in tow
She maps the routes and lights the roads
Beyond black trees all sharp and blown
Through feral fields for miles untold
How she bridges their breadth without effort or labor
How I envy pallid plains set all alight beneath her favor
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 9:20 PM UTC
Who needs terrorists?
They are redundant
When over 60 poor people
Can perish
In a raging inferno
Caused by their own council.
For years the resident action group
Were poo pooed by the authorities
With, “Don’t worry your pretty heads!”
When they warned about fire safety regulations
Being ignored
Just like them.
No sprinklers and only one fire escape
In a twenty four storey building.
Only last year the tower was refurbished
With cheap plastic cladding that’s
Banned in the USA.
Our prime minister has been accused
Of failing to show humanity
By only visiting the Emergency Services
To avoid the angry public.
All this has happened
Not in some God forsaken third world country
But in the fifth or sixth richest economy
In the world.
For sure, that all engulfing tower-fire
Has made the blood of the people
Boil.
Let’s hope this volcano does not erupt
Like the one that caused
The London Riots of 2011.
Let’s hope our administration
At all its levels
Learns something from this:
To Care for its People.
Paul Butters
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
Tanagra! think not I forget
Thy beautifully-storey'd streets;
Be sure my memory bathes yet
In clear Thermodon, and yet greets
The blythe and liberal shepherd boy,
Whose sunny ***** swells with joy
When we accept his matted rushes
Upheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, and blushes.
I promise to bring back with me
What thou with transport wilt receive,
The only proper gift for thee,
Of which no mortal shall bereave
In later times thy mouldering walls,
Until the last old turret falls;
A crown, a crown from Athens won!
A crown no god can wear, beside Latona's son.
There may be cities who refuse
To their own child the honours due,
And look ungently on the Muse;
But ever shall those cities rue
The dry, unyielding, niggard breast,
Offering no nourishment, no rest,
To that young head which soon shall rise
Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.
Sweetly where cavern'd Dirce flows
Do white-arm'd maidens chaunt my lay,
Flapping the while with laurel-rose
The honey-gathering tribes away;
And sweetly, sweetly, Attick tongues
Lisp your Corinna's early songs;
To her with feet more graceful come
The verses that have dwelt in kindred ******* at home.
O let thy children lean aslant
Against the tender mother's knee,
And gaze into her face, and want
To know what magic there can be
In words that urge some eyes to dance,
While others as in holy trance
Look up to heaven; be such my praise!
Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphick bays.
1.8k
When you come away from home you can be one of many things:
A ****
A partyanimal
A geek
A talker
A listener
A doer
A drinker
A social recluse
An alcohol abuser
A hustler
A bustler
A fanatic
A panicker
A best friend waiting to be discovered
A great lover in the cupboard
The list goes on
But we are all one thing:
A fresher
A newbie
A greenhorn
Streetfighters
Run up quarterbacks
Soldiers of Fortune.
And I realise it can be hard
With everything going on
Trying everything new
Trying to make friends
We can sometimes get caught up
And lose our field of vision.
If I could give one piece of advice
It would be:
Be who you are.
Standup for what you believe in –
People always come round to respecting that
If you don’t do shots
Drink beer
If you don’t like ****
Pass on it in a dignified manner.
I once knew a guy who lost his field of vision:
He ended up firing a rifle out of a second-storey window
Trying to hit the centre of the O’s on roadsigns.
It might have been the exuberant amount of alcohol
He had consumed that night.
I just don’t know.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 3:47 PM UTC
my dreams forgotten
the moment my eyes open
frightening sleep induced
realities
my mind keeps secret
to protect
my abused brain
from more horror
and monsters
when i have remembered
they are carved into
my body
i numb to the memory
it is too damaging
to my brittle soul
to hold onto what my mind
has circling beneath
my consciousness
daydreaming is a favourite past time of mine
i swim in the fantasies of a life
i would bury my full attention
into
to at least, in one place in this world,
though not real,
i could be, just once,
someone other than what i was
a mutilated, defective
little blonde haired human
in a home
where maniacs mocked and violated
the innocence i only possessed
for the first few years of my life
oppressed and beaten
to a point where i was
swollen and blemished
where i didn't even know
who i was
only a victim of hatred
and abuse carried from
generation to generation
I MADE IT STOP.
I ended the cycle.
I screamed until I was blue
and made the world that is
domestic violence
halt in its tracks
and told it no.
never. again.
will you harm another
little human.
will you harm,
an adult who was still
in the quick sand
of abuse.
i got out.
(at 24).
i set myself free.
jagged pieces
that are mine now,
not theirs,
put back together
into the puzzle i was
before i emerged
into what became my existence.
my innocence stolen
but not forgotten
i reclaimed fresh air
again,
let it
give new life
into my lungs.
breathing out the black tar
of neglect
breathing out the
white picket fence,
the red brick one storey,
a facade, the mask needed, to
which gave way to allow
my father to hurl everything
he could our way,
so we could burden
his own deep, harrowing pain,
where he was beaten with a belt by his father,
and controlled mercilessly by his mother.
he gave onto me.
us.
our little family.
completely broken.
it could never be repaired.
ever.
we. are. separate.
and we. are. broken.
apart.
for good.
for now and for later.
and it’s all your fault.
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 10:45 PM UTC
You place a finger to my lips
To signify some change;
The wind outside the building shifts,
The curtains rearrange.
Questioning I glance at you:
Your eyes take in the problem
And deem that something is askew,
From top until the bottom.
And then they strike! the serpents
Who guarded tombs of old
Had sneakéd through the curtain
And crept across the floor.
We dash up to the rooftop
But this is in the desert;
Our path of flight, it must stop
That we may end this hurt.
You draw your saber, slowly
All others they gather round
Ev'ry wedding guest holding
To their host's every word
You tell them of the valor
That awaits a man alive
And that it's your desire
That everyone survive.
They arm themselves, bravely
And descend through the floor
To the storey down below me
And shutter the trapdoor.
The plan is simple: find one
And **** the serpent dead
As soon as youve slain it,
Deliver here its head.
The many serpents saw us
And, hissing, took their aim
But not a one escaped us
For our leader, host, the same
He led them without falter
Guiding without doubt
And when the last was severed
We gave a triumphant shout.
The feast continued, slowly
Just as it was before
But none thought little of the man
Who secured their lives once more.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
If I swore to tell you
(wild eyed and breathless)
of what lies
inside my pandora's box
the blue velvet decaying
under my flesh
the whispers in my head
like supple breeze
through follow oaks
(eerily adrift)
would you still dare hold me
at the dusty ledge
of this 85-storey high building
(my crumbling paper body)
as the concrete cracks
submissively
and the walls fall apart
instinctively
because
i would give up
the last of my flicker
to light
your final cigarette
and make
your lonely bed warm
If i held your echoing heart
in my hands (with frantic devotion)
as it throbs rhythmically
in these fire brick palms
propagating at a frequency
of long found anxiety
a dim soul
trapped
in an antique olive wood clock
(tick tock tick)
would you dare still trust me
to dance
with those charred demons
(your most profound secrets)
the ones sworn to be
memories of disgust
the bad taste
at the back end
of your tongue
buried deeper in the Earth
for Hell to bare and hoard
because
i trust you
to embrace
the flaws we share
and
tears we didnt
(but most of all)
the discovery of our story
rapidly unfolding in this unashamed
polluted atmosphere
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
The red car stopped on the arc of the hill at the corner of Corrupt Avenue and ******* Boulevard and let out a young woman with skin a dark brown hue who looked like life had hit her with everything including the bathroom commode.
"Thanks for the inks and the ride" said the dark brown woman as she got out of the red car.
"Red and green looks good on your skin. Can we keep doing *** for tattoos?" said the driver of the car. The dark brown woman took a peek under the shades she was wearing and said "Sure baby."
"I'll be seeing you Abby" said the man driving the red car.
"Yes you will" said Abby.
Abby turned her back to the man driving the red car and walked up the long stairs that led to a four storey brick building. As Abby walked up the stairs she got all types of stares from the people leaving the building. Abby made her way through the big glass doors and noticed an odor.
The smell was the smell of Marijuana. Abby followed the odor to the office of Willie Dun. As Abby entered Willie's office she saw him sitting on his desk with a blunt in his left hand and a liquor bottle in his right hand.
"Abby, baby what took you so long?" asked Willie Dun as he put the blunt to his mouth. Abby took the liquor bottle out of Willie's hand and put it to her lips and took two sips. As Abby took off her white shirt she put the bottle back to her lips taking one last sip.
"I was getting tattoos. What do you think?" asked Abby.
"Nice art work. The reason I called you here is because I want you to help me with my campaign. I'm running for Governor. You have a lot of pull in the streets. Are you still a resident of ***** Alley?" said Willie Dun.
"Yes, but I'll only sign my name on your campaign trail if you help me move out of ***** Alley" said Abby.
"Ok Abby where would you like to move?" asked Willie as he took the liquor bottle out of Abby's hand.
"East Ecstasy Street" answered Abby.
"I can make that happen. With you on my team I'll have the average Joes votes for sure" said Willi Dun.
written by Keith Edward Baucum
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 10:05 AM UTC
How did it feel at the end ?.. were your legs as heavy as your heart as you took your last journey, upwards .. all the way to the top.
What led you to this place?. so broken, so defeated..
I can only imagine how wounded you must have felt, knowing your demise was considered entertainment to the crowd below. Goading you to jump, baying shamelessly for your blood. Updating social media status' .. phones pointed upwards so they could capture your misery and share it with the world.
That must be a very lonely place to be .. .
Did they not comprehend that you were someone's child, perhaps someone's Father.
Their lack of compassion could only have added to your brokenness, your feeling of being alone, misunderstood, unloved.
They left you no options, encouraging you to die like that, when you so obviously needed a kind voice, a kind heart to show you the way down to safety.
Did they enjoy the show ..as you came falling from the sky, did the crowd fall silent as you hit the ground ... LIFELESS .. Do they even comprehend how greatly they have sinned?
May I apologise on behalf of humanity, or share your grief for the lack of.
I hope you have gained the peace, you so desired and didn't get whilst here on earth.
(for the guy who commited suicide, jumping from a multi storey this weekend, spurred on by the crowd below)
(msrigs 17/03/2016)
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
my name is depression
and i will drag your soul across your bedroom floor and hear you scream for help
my name is depression
and i will dig every blood vessel out of your heart until you are bare and empty, cold and silent
my name is depression
and i will run down your face as you try and explain the demon inside of you to people who do not understand
my name is depression
and i will eat your laughter, run my hands down your happiness and choke you with my scrawny fingers as you beg for air
my name is depression
and i will walk you home tonight, crawl into your bed and sit next to you as you contemplate your fall down this 23 storey building
my name is depression
and i won't stop
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 10:43 AM UTC
Stopping at the corner of Corrupt Avenue and ******* Boulvard on the arc of the hill.
The red car let out a young woman with skin a dark brown hue. Who look like life had hit her with everything including the bathroom commode. "Thank you for the inks and the ride" said the dark brown woman as she got out of the red car. "Red and green looks good on your skin. Can we keep doing *** for tattoos?" said the driver of the car. Taking a peek under the shades she was wearing the dark brown woman said "Sure baby." "I'll be seeing you Abby" said the man driving the red car. "Yes you will" said Abby. Turning her back to the man driving the red car Abby walked up the long stairs that led to a four storey brick building. As she walked up the stairs she got all type of stares from the people leaving the building. Making her way through the big glass doors Abby noticed an odor. The smell was the smell of Marijuanna. She followed the odor to the office of Willie Dun. As Abby entered Willie's office she saw him sitting on his desk with a blunt in his left hand and a liquor bottle in his right hand. "Willie Dun I should have known" said Abby as she walked in his office. "Abby, baby what took you so long?" asked Willie Dun as he put the blunt to his mouth. Taking the liquor bottle out of Willie's hand and putting it to her lips Abby took two sips. As Abby took off her white shirt she puts the bottle back to her lips taking one last sip. "I was getting tattoos. What do you think?" asked Abby. "Nice art work. The reason I called you here is because I want you to help me with my campaign. I'm running for Governor. You have a lot of pull in the streets. Are you still a resident of ***** Alley?" said Willie Dun. "Yes but I'll only sign my name on your campaign trail if you help me move out of ***** Alley" said Abby. "Ok Abby where would you like to move to?" asked Willie as he took the liquor bottle out of Abby's hand. "East Ectasy Street" answered Abby. "I can make that happened. With you on my team I'll have the average Joe's votes for sure" said Willie Dun.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 6:10 AM UTC
Stopping at the corner of Corrupt Avenue and ******* Boulvard on the arc of the hill. The red car let out a woman with skin a dark brown hue. Who looked like life had hit her with everything including the bathroom commode. "Thank you for the inks and the ride" said the dark brown woman as she got out of the red car. "Red and green looks good on your skin. Can we keep doing *** for tattoos?" said the driver of the car. Taking a peek under the shades she was wearing the dark brown woman said "sure baby." "I'll be seeing you Abby" said the man driving the red car. "Yes you will" said Abby. Turning her back to the man driving the red car Abby walked up the stairs that led to a four storey brick building. As she walked up the stairs she got all type of stares from the people leaving the building. Making her way through the big glass doors Abby noticed an odor. The smell was the smell of Marijuana. She followed the odor to the office of Willie Dun. As Abby entered Willie's office she saw him sitting on his desk with a blunt in his left hand and a liquor bottle in his right hand. "Willie Dun I should have known" said Abby as she walked in his office. "Abby, baby what took you so long?" asked Willie Dun as he put the blunt to his mouth. Taking the liquor bottle out of Willie's hand and putting it to her lips Abby took two sips. As Abby took off her white shirt she puts the bottle back to her lips taking one last sip. "I was getting tattoos. What do you think?" asked Abby. "Nice art work. The reason I called you here is because I want you to help me with my campaign. I'm running for Governor. You have a lot of pull in the streets. Are you still a resident of ***** Alley?" said Willie Dun. "Yes but I'm I'll only sign my name on your campaign trail if you help me move out of ***** Alley" said Abby. "Ok Abby where would you like to move to?" asked Willie as he took the liquor bottle out of Abby's hand. "East Ectasy Street" answered Abby. "I can make that happened. With you on my team I'll have the average Joe's votes for sure" said Willie Dun.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
He's a skyline
Endless highs wash and glide over my eyelids sparkling wide like the sea
Hook line and sinker, those blue green irises sure do allure a girl like me
Caught in the West-side stormy horizons around his pupils
Falling deep into his sunny day Harbourside gaze
And he wonders aloud why I'm so dazed
so I say yeah, honey, yeah no, I'm great
He's a skyline
Running along avenues of my skin like a city that he's glad as **** to be locked in
Climbing streetlights and smoking trees like it's easy
Feels me in like a summer breeze 'cause it thrills me
Writhing like a motorway, scaling ribcages like a multi-storey
I think he might want to stay, I know cities have a certain glory
I curl up in the curve of his spine like a half pipe
I know he'll keep me safe, he's positive like his blood type
Early morning grey he stands on top of the world with me,
and his heart shaped face breaks me out of boxes I didn't know I had in me.
He's a skyline
I know all the words to his sunset car songs
He likes the windows down and we both like to sing along
And when we go in circles, slipping past the road to the M5
We just turn the volume up and let the whole world just pass us by
It's true what they say that time flies
I can't hold onto these eternities in every easy moment, but I,
I know I'm shotgun eternally, double barrel shots of red wine
and he's gonna think this is funny now 'cause I can't find a clever rhyme
Still,
We're a skyline; an only-way-is-up vertical horizon of opportunity
and he knows exactly where to drive to get into my
brain, and
It's only us in the whole place and our bodies breathe adventure 'cause all I see is his face
Close to mine, eyes shining like the universe awaits
With fingers intertwined like atoms in space
The catalyst for my daydreams is the rave where time stopped on the bass notes
So I could build a wall right up to his skyline for all my high hopes
But he breaks it down every time I fall asleep in his arms
Hearts replace guards, never felt so good to be disarmed.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC
I was a mason and am meant for daily wages,
With me are helpers, young, old, men and women,
And we are the builders, but we do not own the building.
Yet, we own the building till the last patch of the masonry.
We sleep in the storey; dry our clothes, cook our food;
We scatter our belongings and we rule the building a while.
People think we’re just masons, but we’re the kings of the construction.
They say it’s their home or shop to make money for their ‘statuses,
But who is the owner of the property,
And no one on earth is the owner of anything.
On morning we brush our teeth; clean our bowels;
We clean our body; we fill our bowels;
And we take our tools to break and cement the walls.
The sun sets that we shall crawl to our beds,
And our body twisted to stretch out from pain.
Every day we the kings till the last patch of our work,
And no one questions our stay under the roof.
We shall permit even the ‘owner’ of the roof.
We become ‘untouchable’ after our last stroke.
We make them ‘comfortable’ for their stay with our sweat,
And they threw coins at our sweat.
Yet we have not lost our kingship, for we shall regain it
When we’re called for another construction.
We’re happy with our kingship ‘cause we are kings of many homes,
But they ‘own’ a bit of the land.
None on earth is the owner of the land,
For HE Who hath created it is its Owner,
And we’re HIS tenants staying a while,
And we play gimmicks to mimic the outrageous traitor,
And the traitor is the law-breaker, who counteracts the Creator,
But in vain he brandishes his sword against the Mighty.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:34 AM UTC
On that rattling train
and rocky bus
you went
with your mother
to the sanatorium
where your father
was shafted
with cancer
the bus
made you travel sick
the long drive upward
was lined with trees
and tall grass
the building
a one storey affair
rigid and unfriendly
stood silently there
you walked down
long white corridors
the smell added
to your sickness
the passing of rooms
and windows
and silence
mother said nothing
carry hope
in her handbag
and you waited
for the first sight
of your father
since he’d left home
a short while before
and there he was
in pyjamas
and maroon dressing gown
and slippers
pale faced
an old man
imitating
your father
death winged
and narrow shouldered
he stood
attempting a smile
the cancer his companion
creeping beside him
there was greeting
and exchange
of kiss and hug
and you taking in
the wasting away
the lines on features
the grey hair
turning white
the hanging on clothes
he took you
to a room
where you all
sat alone
given up smoking
he said
too late I know
but it gives me
the final word
mother sat
and talked of him
and home
and the other kids
and the pet dogs
missing him
and you sat silent
seeking the right words
the thoughts muddled
the sight of him
a shock
how are you?
he asked
he’s travel sick
mother said
o that’s bad
he said gently
as though it mattered
in the range of things
the smell of death
and decay
the last goodbye
seeing him no more
beyond that day.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 2:31 PM UTC