Poetry – 9

Puddles On the shores of a puddle A small boy played. A matchbox and sticks Were an enemy raid. A dam wall of mud Kept the sea all inside And the ripples of wind Were the waves and the tide. Brave soldiers of plastic And tanks stuck with glue, Lined the mud banks All steadfast and true. The little boy’s mind Saw no mud nor a puddle, Just vast seas and an army, Locked in a struggle. The game will be played Until mother does call, Then with god-like delight He will break the dam wall.

Love Frank? Mmmmm? Love me? Mmmm? Oh, yes. Really love me? What? Yes, of course. Really and truly love me? No. What! No. You don’t mean that? I do. But, but you just said... That I love you. So? I do. But... I do love you. Really and truly? Oh... shit!

Gentle Jack (a black Labrador) At least once in their lives Everyone should know a ‘gentle Jack’. Coal black, shiny hair and dark eyes Full of knowing,, even understanding. Fiercely protective of those he loved, But ever gentle with the smallest child. A gentle, gentleman who walked, ran and swam Whenever he could, but treated with disdain Those kin who misbehaved. Dear Jack, knowing you has been A life enhancing experience. We thank you for enriching our lives.

Confrontations Confrontations are useless, They merely aggravate the open wound, Rip asunder the healing stitches of time, Open new wounds and serve no purpose Other than salving the wounded ego, Establishing the ‘rightness’ of intention. (The do-gooder’s raison d’etre) But confrontations resolve problems, Expose difficulties, clean wounds And prevent emotional gangrene. Isn’t that better?

The Senses A hawk stoops against a clear, blue sky. But the man with the binoculars Sees only the girl in the bikini. The sun emblazons the horizon in molten gold. But the man feels only the sweaty flesh Of his own desiring. A nightingale swells the evening air with song. But the man is plugged into his Battery operated Sony-Walkman. Wild dog rose and golden vetch perfume the night air. But the man smells only the vinegar Of his fish and chips.

Pariahs Spartan youth camps Hitler youth camps Al Qaeda training camps Jesuit missionaries “Give me a child of 7 and he’s mine for life.” Indoctrination, Indoctrination. Indoctrination. Makes a nation Of children Trained to kill Without discrimination.

The Prisoner The prisoner hides within himself, His eyes alone stare out, Anxious, sharp, Alert and dark. Flinching from every verbal knout. Everything at double pace, A constant, nervous, scurry. Rattled mugs, Clattering studs, A sobbing, breathless, hurry. Oh God! Let the bastard trip and break his neck! Four ounce of bread at every meal, A grey anonymous lump, A fag, Quick drag. A silent, crowded, loneliness. Escape into a darkened womb, Enfolded in the night. A sneer, A tear. Rough blanket embrace tight.

The Plant I cursed the plant in the window, Merely to see it wilt. A tall old plant with dank, lank leaves And timid blue blossom a-tilt. It leaned to the sun and it yearned To be bigger and better one day, But its fleshy pale stalks and wishy green leaves Made it ugly and smell of decay. I am tall and I’m fleshy and pale And when I am old, like that plant, Perhaps I’ll yearn to be better And weep when I find that I can’t.