Short poetry folio

Little Projects

Inspired by: George Elgar Hicks (1878), All that was left to love, oil on canvas, London.

Linda looks sad today,
she has caught a bird again,
this project of hers has consumed her lately.

Even in her saddest moments,
she gets whipped into a prodigious frenzy,
toiling away,
crafting delicately.

She’s in the back now,
with that bird,
bludgeoning it,
again and again,
slamming it down on the table.

It flops limply from her hands now,
as she prepares to pluck its feathers,
for her new coat.

Just Ordinary People

Do you belong here?
Answer the question!
Just letting you know
who is in control,
a little tongue lashing
goes a long way.

People or animals?
Indistinguishably indulging,
giving in to their fear,
acting irrationally,
driven to insanity,
they run,
trying to escape.

Places of stagnation,
the people frozen,
a different district,
characterised by raw emotion,
animalistic barbarity,
wastes of humanity.

A mass of broken lives,
blind and breeding.

Families, clans, church communities,
civilian warzones,
resistance to direction,
rife with misconceptions,
overdosing to numb
the predictable decline,
pervasive violence
shattering lives.
Just ordinary people

Faith To Behead


Faith to be behead Scan



With a twitch of the muscle,
I hustle through the night,
past trees and grass,
from shadow to light.
I am drunk and alive
on sound and smell.
With luscious pampering
the heart does swell.
From darkness scampering,
to broad and bright,
my graceful meandering,
shows agile might.

Vibrantly I live and
thrive on radiant land,
on forestry and her
simple beauty. New
green of spring dew,
supple subtleties do
bring warmth to flesh.
Well into the chill,
of dark all around
and still, my mind
is free in wonder.
Cares wash away,
through open gates
that serve to allay,
even the faintest,
fear of fates or
cause to lament.
At natures mercy,
I am content.

The blur of black
shadows morphing.
From bright beams,
cutting and laughing,
comes stark blindness.
Locked in this white,
landscape surround,
the essence of time,
splits in two. I’m
lost in true panic.
At the gates, pounding,
from the ground, mania
knocks. Screaming,
“sorrow is coming.”
A journey interrupted,
my senses corrupted,
with thundering sound
and artificial stench,
that causes me to
retch. I am engulfed.
Frozen still in shock,
this arid atmosphere
does cruelly mock.
The cold is now sinister.
Sadness builds intensely,
shattering my peaceful
dreams relentlessly.

Devastated, battered and
churned, my insides knot.
As I split violently open.
Gates twisted and broken.
From painful death throes
only sickening carrion
is left for the crows.


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