Tag: Poem

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To No One in Particular

Back in the day, I was the guy you called for a pint-and-a-punch-up, 
back in the days when I didn’t drink.  Who do you call now, with so many moons passing?  
I saw what’s-her-name some time ago, it being a fragment of my imagination.
She asked about you, but I couldn’t remember her name, so I ummed and ahhh’d until she walked away. 
Another fragment I won’t get back.  
Nor she.

“Everything changes, if it’s allowed to”, 
tattooed on my arm, to remember.  Read over and over again.  
You said that to me and I tried to understand.  I’m still trying.
Everything changes, if it’s allowed to.
Back in the day when I didn’t drink,
I was the guy you called for a pint-and-a-punch-up, 
Who do you call now, if anyone at all?

To, No one in Particular:
I nearly wrote you something last night.  The words came, but so did the shame 
followed by my embarrassment, so all you get is this.   
…Three days later I came up with this …
I wanted to ask you to hold my hand, to lay with me
and tell me everything was going to be ok, 
to tell me the one lie I needed to hear.  
Who do you call now?  Is it what’s-her-name?  Her and her passing moons!  
Or is that too, just a fragment of my imagination.
I want to hold your hand, lay next to you as you tell me.

Everything changes, even when it’s not allowed to.

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It Takes a Village

Bombardments, I see them in the distance, but realise that only a selected few know that truth.  I am a see’er.  It sounds mystical, because I am.  And we – I’ve not knowingly met another one, but I know they exist – are.  Mystical.

It takes a village.  Bombardments seen in the distance.

See’ers are trained to be indifferent.  Not on the outside, but in.  Indifferent to indifference to everything they see.  I mostly hear (which is odd being a see’er).   

It takes a village,

it takes a village.  

The others – the see’ers who I’ve not met, but know they exist – want me to be quiet, not on the outside, but in.  ‘Keep quiet‘.  Well, for  me at least.

Bombardments, I see them in the distance, but now realise that only a selected few want to know that truth.

It took a village to keep us quiet. 

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Just Be’ing

Hold-up. Wait-a-minute.

Tell me, whose play is this, yours or mine?
This ain’t no act baby, this, and I mean this, is the real deal.

You? You are the actor, or is it actress?, whatever the correct political phrase be, you are acting in another man’s play. Yes you Missy Mistress, in another’s man’s play.

Give up your act. Own it, be it, live it, and Just Be’ing. Just Be’ing… you.

Adding life to art.  Remember when we (meaning ‘me’) came up with (meaning ‘stole’) ‘Life, like art is a process.’ All I did was add ‘Life’. I added ‘Life’.

Hold-up. Wait, one minute.

Where you going, why are you walking away?  I ain’t finished yet! My brother, my sister,  I ain’t finished! Let ‘dem real men speak. Let…dem…speak!  Let them Just Be’ing

Hold-up. Wait-a-minute.

Is it me, or maybe something I said?  Is it my top billing?  My owning this, ‘this’ being my stage?  I knew it, I knew it!

I.

Knew.

It.

Well you need to step-aside, step-aside and Just Be’Step’ing

to

the

side.

Stepping to be. Stepping to just be.  Stepping to just be anything.  But please.  Please! Please stop wanting to be… just me.

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Work in Progress

We are all, works in progress.
Working towards progress.
Progressing towards work.
Working to progress it out,
to work it out.
Works in progress.
Progress, work.
Progress works!
Work progresses.
Working it.
Work It.
Werk.
Work.

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My Conversation With Death

For the past two years, he has steadfastly remained at my side. I hope I did not offend when I told him he had come too late.

“I died many years ago,” I said playing with the handkerchief I held in my hand.

He looked at me, and put a smirk on his face,

“Yes, I know.  I hear your silence.  I cannot kill, what is already dead.”

“So why do you stay?”

“To keep you company.”

Our silence, once again, returned.

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The Judas

scabal test29447Her decision had been made.

She snuck in, past the guards, during the very early hours of the morning. Having found his cell, she stopped and stared at him. In the darkness, she could see his swollen face, beaten so badly, she thought him nearly unrecognisable. This, she had not expected. She made the journey because she convinced herself that she needed to see him one last time. To tell him she was sorry, that everything was going to be ok, and he would back in his home soon, surrounded by his family. But now here, those words would not come. She was too afraid, and even more ashamed to call-out to him. She stood motionless for 15 minutes (maybe more). Still no words came. As she left, she heard him mutter – but she did not stop. She kept her eyes forward, carefully slipping past the guards once more, never looking back.