Ambidextrous
Art
Writers sing poems
of painters
painting the poetry
written by Jack of all trades -
all in tune
with the artists and writers
awash with melody's brush,
waxworks of
watercolour songs
burst from their tired larynx.
Alabaster
I touch my hands to the ceiling,
just
one idle afternoon,
flatten my palms
to see the bar -
to feel the
extent
to get the measure of my limitations -
and the plaster cracks
my powdered ego
falls about my shoulders.
Spluttering, I wipe away
the offending particles
of my superficiality -
I frown at the
superficial damage
and dust to survey
the impression I have made
and the dents to my alabaster.
Stairway
to........
if
notions
were
potions
would oceans dry
up and volcanoes fume
until the heavens
coughed
and torrential rain spears fell
down piercing the ground
til wave
upon wave of weapons ran in tidal bores;
or weird spells
be cast like we were created
as the dinosaurs departed with the use
owitchcraft
and trickery of bearded old mens wizardry or was it
all just
a bad dream, or perhaps the hopes of a crazed false profit on
drugs?
Fatigue
Is a tepid moon glow
poetry - and within it
a still scene of serene, black sea
incomprehensibly
holding
its arms out for me?
So then death be my slumber,
stillness be my peace,
and placid waters run eerily
deep
consumed in depths
of lead buoyancy -
serenity is
my slumber
now that death has been
laid to rest, buried deep
in its tortured grave
of
war's overkill.
Retro
I said goodbye
like
to an old pen pal
infrequently visited,
but landing postmarked
on
my lap
with the unwanted laments
of sweats that cling to strangers
passing on their greetings
to hands of my
indifference and clammy
opinion -
I had said goodbye
to menopause.
Marionette
Twisted
fibrous strings
command frivolous play
at jointed limbs.
We dance
and are jigged
woefully rigged
when each jarring movement
is
in turn deliberately
fraught with venomous tugs
Each jolt brings
attempted revolt,
but the puppeteer snarls
our lifelines become
gnarled,
entangled in his bitter torture.
Unravelling his capture he
spins
and mocks till we are unmeshed
shocked till we
dont know if we are
coming or going.
Wooden shoes clatter,
as
smaller figures who dont matter,
play to an audience
and
bleed
into the pockets of the puppeteers
greed.
Swift but
doleful we have become,
dancing to the puppeteers hum.
Lifeless,
hung out,
no route of escape.
We dance and we clip clop
a
charade
man made, pulled
and lulled along
by a succession of
tyrants
who just want
to see us wriggle
and squirm like
the
moth eaten marionette
always ruled
once
unfurled.