Short sad poems
SPARROW
No perfection in struggled death,
Just the pellet tearing lungs, limbs, sinews
On an earth unforgiving,
And the gaping jaw -
Each shiver a reminder of the frailty of life
And death's dark hunger
That will eat out each raw last breath.
Who could deliver the bullet who saw that private war ?
Death is no victory, but a bloodied mess.
November 2001
To my eternal shame I shot a sparrow.
Alan Harris has written of feeling the same thing in his short story A Sorry Quarry and he's also written a gentle poem than mine about death -
Bug in my Kitchen
MY GENTLY MELTING FACE
My gently melting face
Drips down the mirror
As though lies and lakes were mapped on the moon;
My gently melting face
Turns inwards,
Eating away at the beauty of youth,
Carving out age,
Holding my values to the world for all to see -
My gently melting face
Unfortunately
Is me.
November 2005
CIDER SONG
In the black night
In the overgrown houses
Old men sing their cider songs,
Too tired to know that death sits by.
In the black night
In the overgrown houses
Old men sleep fitfully in freezing isolation
As a full moon sucks their breath
And prods them to hard stone.
The alcoholics on the soup run.
Losing Me
I had, inside, a bit that was 'me',
That responded to certain calls, like a bird in the wild,
Or sensed things on the wind and ran in that direction.
One day, however, I made a choice,
And I walked into a castle, pulling up the drawbridge,
And there - in those four walls - I raised my child,
And ceased to exist.
Sometimes the wind blows, and sometimes the birds call,
But I am brave, and turn my head away,
Looking instead at where I should be.
Oct. 2001
When my child was born I lost my identity.
Madman
On drugs to scald the heavens,
Bull-necked and the arms of a rower
To the maddened moon he makes his cries,
From the chatter-gape of his hole
Spew muddled lies:
In the dark street, at night time,
Expressed surprise -
An empty clatter of cold, bare glass
Rummaging the still air,
His new signature -
Caught in a life he never expected,
From the nursery toys to this
He parades his dementia and loose, full hope
To the calling moon
As the swirling tides of his madness
Knock and beckon on the locked black doors
Of his consciousness;
No woman would touch him.
A wonder, then, to see him at work,
If work is what it is,
Surrounded by the black-backed leather clad
Who ooze from the pores of the world
To swim with him through destruction.
November 2001
A poem about a drug-fuelled man wreaking havoc in the local community.
DOES HE KNOW THAT HIS WIFE'S UNFAITHFUL
Does he know that his wife's unfaithful,
And looks at me with a secret smile ?
Does he know that his wife walks
In a way no woman walks
Whose mind's on the straight and narrow ?
A little sweetness, a little light,
Looking good, feeling right -
Does he know that his wife's unfaithful
And looks at me with a secret smile ?
A poem about a very 'upright' woman who used to give me 'those' sorts of glances.
HOSPITAL NIGHTMARE
Once you talked of dying and my heart gave a heavy thump
As the blood drained momentarily from my face.
Death, yes, I can bear,
But not the thought of your eyes lonely in the white hell of hospital
As they bludgeon you with superficiality
And strip you of your essence,
Which is warmth, complaining, loving,
Being needed and needing.
I look down at your sleeping face, feel the heat of your body,
See your eyelids flicker, hear you deep breathing,
And know this is the way I want you to go.
1987
Hospitals are hell-holes.
Here's a poignant poem about an awareness of death, by Alan Harris - it's called Siren
CURLED UP LIKE A HAMSTER
Curled up like a child
Or a flower unborn,
Hair fanned out across a pillow rumpled and ruffled by your sleep,
The duvet swirls around your form
Like a nest around a bird or hamster,
Snuggling in to eat up what small warmth exists.
The heat of your body glows against my skin
As I slip in beside you:
Here there can be no gaudy misrepresentation,
Only your caress,
As we bask in the precious dawn hours
In semi-slumber.
23/5/1987
Dawn snooze with the wife.
SELF-PITY
When I was born the sun lay down
And time called out for clouds to lead me on
But I refused to dance
And set up all the wailings of the newborn child
Bitter at my loss,
Saddened by my plight,
Born to dust and earth
And dreary endless blight.
Just a little bit of imagination here, imagining what it might have been like to be a spirt born into flesh.
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