Life blamed as a roller-coaster

 

They say it was the fish,
waiting like Judas to hang in a tree
that sing each night
you cry
for what you didn't do
when it mattered to have manners.

They rip apart in the night wind
and become floating leaves, moon silver
if you try to find the song
but Judas helps. He finds fish hard work -
they cry
when stabbed into candles
on each branch of the true tree.

No woman was hurt in the making of this song
for the fish tonight belongs to the man
with thin lips that taste full in dreams
(or at least in yours). And to the man with a stick
who thinks drink is the crutch.

They’ll wake up in the morning
and know that Judas
left bones and flesh to flake
and trees weeping as the weight
was held.

They'll say it was the fish,
and the song sang to reel in lost boys
that let Judas die,
so said Jesus and his many apostles
but what say you?

On missing Star Trek

poem for dVerse

The shop winter bare:
stubbed nose carrots,
and fresh tinned peas,
facing wind and cries of night
through ice bright windows
on tiled counters dazzle-buffed
by housewife hands
when steps were scrubbed
as clean as necks.

In a doorway,
hair brown as dead leaves,
hides a boy, eleven,
wearing out the step with kicks
as he waits
for a bus that will honk, change gear
and speed away
to half-a-crown dreams
leaving him to empty skies
and the taste of night smoke.

At time as yet unknown,
his son will stand in spring warmth,
looking at father’s tales
of boys who played wild
tasting a past full of secret sweets
that one day he'll unwrap.

His father only heard
whispers of when mam dropped drawers
for a bit of how's your father
making him the shame.
of a village,
two pit shifts big,
with an empty chapel
and a full co-op.

Now he FaceTImes
on an iPad,
better than Kirk’s Star Trek,
to his son,
who picks 'n' mixes history,
to free whores and frighten bankers
and the winter bare shop
a screen saver.

The poem was influenced by  The Train by Moya Cannon. You can read it on this blog.http://tw.gs/U1seA  The English original is below the Spanish version.

When Daddy says, ‘ We’re Playing’

For dVerse prompt

Oh Fiddle de dee and Fiddle fie foe
down in the cupboard is a claw and toe,
of foulest beast who wants a feast at least.

Oh Fiddle de dee and Fiddle fie foe
toggle boggles scratch at darken window
with cry and sigh so high in moonless sky.

Oh Fiddle de dee and Fiddle fie foe
come mummy-mum before your little sparrow
is beaten and weaken until tender and eaten.

Oh Fiddle de dee and Fiddle fie foe
where is my birthday arrow and bow
when crunch and munch are looking for lunch?

Oh Fiddle de dee and Fiddle fie foe
I promised no films on slappy scarecrows
that slash and gash so you have to dash.

Oh Fiddle de dee and Fiddle fie foe
my eyes feel as dark as blackest crow
and fall as I crawl to death's sprawl.

Oh Fiddle de dee and Fiddle fie foe
it's morning bright with yummy bacon morrow
so time to dance and prance without mischance.

Killing me softly with his song

 

poem for dVerse open link

The radio plays the song he never knew.

Though the window flashes by candle bright pubs
where good girls get wicked on Bloody Marys
and boys are on a promise
leaving alley girls strumming with cold hands
misunderstood suits
and beer roused flares
now over free love.

In the car at night
pain paints its clown mask
of snaky smile
as his fingers draw tears.

At the lights, two men naked
wrapped in Union Jacks
are singing in the street,
celebrating death made
for other Gods to curse
life to threadbare albums
and parades that turn the man
to flag and country.

The radio plays the song he never knew,
he was only a tune waiting for its lyric.

Originally written for Poetics  at dVerse Poets Pub and now revised for a video poem

Too late

 

dVerse poem

In prickled night of starry widow's lace
an empty face,

eyes candle bright, body of shadow coat
awaits for throat,

so tender white and free from loving kiss
and nightly bliss.

And she of lemon soap and gentle frown
in bridal gown

dance cherry blossom free with steps of spring
that hope does bring.

Outside, the darkness sings a lullaby
for eyes to die

in slumber lily pure until a bite
cast out sunlight.

and now the blood of men awakes her shroud -
if he's endowed.

Dear reader, mock you this tale of night's fear
with righteous sneer

and one dark night your tearful friends will tell,
He did not yell

Corn on the throb

Poem for d’Verse poetics

Get your Calvin's on,
show the step ready for its door.
Splash on Paris cliché
and stretch on cotton picked for hunger
so eyes feast
on the wolf howling for moon mountains.
Kill the phone, your lips have pulled,
let your fingers text me, baby.

Each night the movie star
made for radio
plays Simm love
broken at level one.

Wake up! It's the middle of your life.
Find love to haunt.

Old man waiting

 

Poem for d’verse poetics

Lemon soap, supermarket brand for a rushed shower
and the taste of instant coffee still on her lips.
Sorry for the delay we are waiting for a signal.
The  pencil skirt cries for white flesh above prim stocking.

Her black hair, wind tossed, exposes tiny shells,
that’ll guide a tongue to the fruit of each ear.
A blossom orchard and the smells of spring call.
Control, say we may be here for some time

Fingers rub distraction into the morning paper
taking away the taste of rouge lips
and lemon breeze from slipping buttons
as tube maps show lines need curves.

Mind the Gap
The pencil skirt fades into office grey
and duty free splash
replaces lemon dreams.
Mind the Gap