Category Archives: Prose

The Black Bird

THE BLACK BIRD

The black bird
hopped a little

The staccato
movements
of his head
accommodated his
beady eyes

All clear?

Then, time for
another peck

Peck and lift –
Throw aside –
staccato look – again
Peck peck –
peck and lift

You get the picture

But no –
now
up up and away…

Today’s takings
taken to the nest.

Feed
regurgitated one
regurgitated two

Partner?
– elsewhere occupied

“I know nothing about birds”
I reflect

“Nothing about birds…”

I don’t know
one species
from another

But they all
Peck and lift –
Throw aside –
staccato look – again
Peck peck –
peck and lift

 

 

Advertisements

Constant Consternation

CONSTANT CONSTERNATION

Constant consternation

Imagination takeover
Fretting
up and down the frets of life
The music of dissonance

Rasping sounds
backfiring

Fury is
running wild

Seeking escape
from that
which is coming upon the earth

Dissolution epidemics –
marriages falling apart
(the abnormal)
becoming the norm
because no answers are found

The answer is blowing in the wind
But not the wind au naturel
But the wind of God.

Foremost in –
the forefront –
of the collective mind

is baking our own cakes
for survival

Communities together
under many guises
common denominators
becoming their religion

But consternation is
higher and lower
and higher and lower
and higher and higher
and higher…

Consternation
for that
which is coming upon the earth

The high tower
safe and secure
the righteous run into it and are safe

The high tower of God’s name

But the loose – so profuse
The careless and confused
The calamitous lives
lived in confusion

The brokenhearted
the dissolute
take infrequent breaks
to stop and take stock
emotionally zombie’d
and can’t seem to rise
to return
to normality
to a worthwhile
existence.

They cry out for mystery’s
to be solved

they fall further addicted

we all struggle
with the nature within
but never use the word sin…

come with me we shall catch the bus
Yes – it is slowly starting
it’s heading for the next gear
slowly – heavily – away
run
run with me
catch it still

It will take us to the place
of peace within
‘Is this the bus for us?’

The children’s book did ask

Let that be our metaphor
departing within
for another place
found at the cross of the crossroads

crossroads in your life
answers found

‘put your hand in the hand
of the man who stilled the water…’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Reunion (Observed)

THE REUNION
(Observed)

Leather clad male and female
Friends at the biker’s reunion

Much water under the bridge
As the man who knew most
communicates and calls for the
old school get-together

The common stamp
of biker’s footprints
upon the dirt
As boots push into the ground
And hearty embrace is entered into

Smiles and laughter and
banter-esque exchanges
Bandana’s as-ever – diverse
sunglasses peer at glasses of beer

Hefty slaps on the back
And pretence-shadow-boxing

Quips and remarks and studious
glances at each others bikes

A multitude of comments – and in there
James Dean and Marlon get mentioned

The cacophony of sound as
engines are revved up and enter
the ventricle of the seat of the emotions

Waves and – hand signs
good bad and ugly

In sport –
they
race-off leaving someone behind

While all the old bike brand names
are regurgitated
In memories recalled

Once a biker always a….

Creaking bones now
beards still as long – yea longer
Hats n signs and necklaces and rings

Torn jeans
and
home-made
waistcoat adaptations
as fancy dictates

Large legs of chicken
In fact whole chickens
consumed
Burping and belching and wiping of mouths

My oh my…
A family indeed of special language
and political correctness
of a different kind

A life on the road
(At weekends anyway) –
For families are now returned to

Except for the infantile
Living still
in the nostalgia
Of the past
As though the past hadn’t passed.

 

 

I remember…

I remember

I remember…
The whitewash on the yard walls
The transformation when renewed

I remember…
the long wooden trays of
the baker –
mobile-man
in a van
calling at doors

The array of breads – biscuits – cakes
each allocated it’s partition.
Each breathtakingly sealed on
a young mind

I remember…
the semi-circular
pristineness of mum’s
scrubbing of the street
outside the door

I remember…
dad’s froth covered face
and ski-slope tracks made in
it’s shaven snow.

I remember…
dad – shoulders back –
chest out – muscles flexed as he
punched the wall in jest –
to impress his young son

Impressed he was –
and so was the wall

I remember…
the parlour.
The parlour.
For so it was named

I remember…
the cavaliers and
the roundheads
(a patient, loving mum
with son
obtained – in shop ‘umpteenth’
after
their long slog
the full length of the road)
and
put away for Christmas day

I remember…
a tender-hearted mother
who put her two children first,
always first.

I remember…
as millions have remembered
As mankind remembers
As mankind is made
to have memory
I remember..

But I also forget…
I forget what memory fails
to revisit
The engine won’t start
No matter how hard I try

We all would revisit
the
good times/
good things/
good happenings –

meaningful things
frivolous things

Our first-ever this…
and
our first-ever that…

Off we went without a care
until dished-out treatment
(kids can be so cruel)
stopped us in our
joyous tracks

I remember…
bully boys
and my chivalrous stand
the marks of the one-sided
battle I physically endured

I remember…
great nights of play
continuity from that of the day
Football played by ear
as the day’s light
did disappear

I remember…
a childhood crush
All in the mind

Emotion only
allowed to touch

I remember…
school…

and

[I break into this trip…]

‘This can’t be me’ I quip
to myself
as I write this
‘I remember’… riff

For I will stop here –
no more visiting
nostalgia –
the bygones

by
ropes and hooks
on the past
dragged back
into memories
present span

I will no longer challenge
you
to indulge or disagree
ridicule or stare incredulously

This is out of fashion
to talk so
You are showing your age

McCartney and his
‘silly love songs’
comes to mind

But no one will blemish
my preciousness
with insensitive
disqualification
For
I am no pearl and
you are no swine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The value of value

The value of value

Indiscriminate value

“That’s worth it…”
here
to
Highly valued…
there

Value – please explain

The value people put on things

There it is at the market place
Many monies I pay

There it is –
older –
once used

twice removed
little monies I pay

The artist’s conglomerate
to make a ‘bob or two’
You do the background
I the fore
You mix the paint
I will apply to twelve at once
Churned out –

Standard image

with no thought-standard

Conveyor belt stuff

“Get what you can for it…”

Superficial value –
No love or tender care

Supply and demand
300% mark-up
Somebody’s creaming it.

Value.
Nostalgic value to the robbed.

Value contrasts:
The rich pay to indulge
The poor pay to survive

Value
and
value-added tax

Value
the values of life

Your values
My values
do not coincide

Valuable

Value and
what is able
to be valued
to remain
valuable

Longevity counts
for value

Your valued life
in the hands of
the surgeon

eroded to:
just making a name
for himself(?)

More earnings
to buy valuables

Human life?
thousands and
thousands –
wiped out

too overwhelming
for the brain
to process

Christ
thought us
valuable enough
to die for

enough to enter the mystery
of His chosen punishment

to remove the sting
of destroying sin

Value –
Christ forsaken –
‘we esteemed Him
stricken,
Smitten by God,
and afflicted’.

becoming valueless

that true value
might
be restored.

 

 

 

 

Conjectured Description

Conjectured Description

A shell of a man
To all intents and purposes

Gone through – and – out – the other end
of all things most disconcerting

A brain if ever there was one
But pilloried and disposed of
Unappreciated and sidelined and
Overruled and misconstrued
Over-the-top isolation and fault finding
Buffeted from side to side
From plane to plane
Bullied in the most predatory manner

Yet coming through it all –
brain intact
And still ready for the fray
So why the ‘shell of a man?’

It took it’s toll – it left it’s mark – it cost him something – emotionally drained – morose – and disquieted within – with only steely resolve remaining intact.

His shell most abused
You will search long and hard to find the withered personality within

But he was told he is ‘still here’
By a friend who added: ‘Living to fight another day…’

And who may I ask…?

Indeed pray tell me…

Who was that man?

That was The Lone Ranger!
Kemosabe:
“faithful friend or trusty scout.”

 

 

 

KRONER

KRONER

Inscribed:
‘Danmark
5 Kroner’
With a hole in the middle
What to make of this?

Found on the street
It fell on a downward spiral
Into the deepness of my pocket –

Living on the street up to now
Now I imprison it
in the dark recesses of linen.

The hand went deep to
retrieve it
on returning home

Examination ensued
“numismatists”
I’m told –
don’t necessarily
collect coins…

Catalogue: –
Worth anything?
This Danmark Kroner?

Very little.
So back into the pocket you shall go

Why have you come into my life?
You only pose questions.

And the hole in the middle?
Hi Diddle Diddle
(there’s a hole in the middle)
the cat and the Fiddle…
Cows jumping over moons –
I mean…come on?
Dogs laughing?

Dishes and spoons animated?
Running away with each other?
(Yea…yea…)

No – just a hole in the middle
Hang it around your neck –
liberating it from the cell
of your garment and once again
into the light of day,
no longer
to return/remain
on street
at feet
amidst the dirt and grime
but rather
exalted and exultant in
full majestic view,
joined to a handsome chain of gold enthroned on the neck
for all curious glances
and
made a fuss over
as the story unfolds:
‘I found it on the street…’

No longer homeless – adopted – a permanent child with a father…

Kroners with holes
I at last have seen and obtained
LG 1995 Jp with hearts and crowns

Worth little
but
neck-planned
for exposure and PR.

If only holes could speak.
If only Kroners could smile.

And yet I can sense it’s satisfaction
See it’s silver glint
All washed up – on display
from
an all-washed-up existence.

“Oh Kroner attached to my person swinging on a permanent swing of gold.

I know little of your life or background – I have never been to your birthplace.

But you will remain my friend, my companion, my little muse.

I might even grow fond of you”.

Friends

 

FRIENDS

Just another man walking down the street
Just another man walking down the Avenue.
Inside – body particulars –
in all men
made the same

Inside – a mind that ticks with time
– ticks with the clock

“What makes you tick?”
the question is often asked
the heartbeat’s journey through time,
That’s what keeps me ticking.

Keeps the mind alive
In meditation’s ponder

Looking to the left – looking to the right
He crosses the road of the street of the avenue
Not taking enough care in concentration

But he gets there
To the other side – I mean
His mind ticks over and he realises his mistake

So he ventures back the way he came
A long enough journey – he strides to return

To the newsagents – where he’s already been
Yes thankfully – he did leave his umbrella there
And yes – no one else took it.

“While I’m here give me another packet of
those Fisherman’s Friend’s.
You know the one’s that help you breath-easy”.

“Thanks”

He returns the way he came before he returned
the way he had come

He crosses the street of the avenue
with great care and concentration.

And disappears into the crowd with his Friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Salvaged

SALVAGED

“And I just want to thank Jim for all his hard work”

With this – it was over
And it only remained for glasses to be chinked
And conversations expanded to subjects
other than the toast and the toasted.

Relaxed – on chairs and sofas they lounged
And exchanged semi-serious views
And ‘attention getter’ remarks
That allowed he who was totalling things up
To give ego points filed in his brain.

The toasted decided to go
Leave the company
knowing he would leave the Company

No-one else knew
Seemed a shame really –
all that toasting business
For a deflated aftermath
Expected –
when he would announce his resignation

Still – there is always the memories
The lasting memories
Lasting at least a year.

Better paid it would be
Bigger office no doubt
‘Advancement’ – the cause
‘Advancement’ – the cure.

Further up ladders
To peer down at him
Who would look up to him
And who would look down on him

Hims or hers
As the case might be

He ventured home in a taxi
With toastings – still ringing in his ears

As he hit the pillow
His nose disappeared
His neck took a cramp
It extended to his ear

But he salvaged the situation
By relaxing…

He had salvaged the situation
in his life…

 

 

 

 

Dog driving

 

DOG DRIVING

There is a dog’s head floating in my rear-view mirror
Musn’t get distracted while driving
But look again – how can an animated dog’s portrait
Find it’s way like a floating balloon?
I adjust at the traffic lights and stare more fully
Into the mirror
And then I see it is the glass in the car behind
that adds the transparent sun-kissed mirage-illusion of the body-less hound
It’s head actually stuck through the half lowered window
I try to see if there is a dog driving, according to these sun-staccato’d windows of deception.