Tag modern poems
long, grey spirals of dusk
skirr in.
The moon hangs
out of its socket,
dripping.
The lovers don´t touch,
final lies freeze their breath,
a brittle, vertical icicle.
And wrote a line or two,
Then read aloud his magic words
To mould the world anew.
A Painter heard the Poet’s words,
Then took his golden brush,
To paint the world alive again,
Down to the river’s rush.
Of populous populations,
Supply is often halted beyond the womb
And should a child make it
To the densely packed production line,
There are no lifetime guarantees
No best before, or after birthday dates
Supply outcries demand.
But demand increases should you move
Within the factory floor,
Be placed onto the packaged line
“First World”
Or stamped and wrapped:
“For Family Wealth”
Monotone silences and idle gossip and smiles that just decay,
Laughter that fizzles past the lips of superfluous strangers,
Hospital rooms and bathroom stalls saving you from dangers,
Gripping writing tools like vices for the future,
Avoiding full eye contact and solidifying closure,
Running up ramp ways and giggling like it’s pleasantry,
Bells ringing like Notre Dame ignoring all the travesty,
He fell from the edge of my rhymes,
He fell out of my poems,
He slipped from between the lines.
His lips were made of paper,
Unkissable and cold,
But his hands were a sonnet
So beautifully told.
bears memories buried
in the corolla of a rose,
in the odours of my childhood,
barely woken from a dream,
our tryst abandoned.
swims against the tides of fate,
clashes with uptight currents,
is buoyed by gentle waves
like a bolt into a dream made out of nothingness,
crowns of hope
along the touch of nature.No golden shoes enfold the feet.
They are bare and wounded.
wrought from iron, glass, and concrete.
An old world under shadows drowned,
their conquest nearly complete.
Grotesque forms rise to the skies,
Heavens territory is ceded.
The old from consumption dies,
its ancient spirit depleted.
oh much deeper than our own pain
Wisdom and strength they all borrow
washed by waters of life’s own rain
Each of us ponders life’s reason
looking deep within our own soul
We follow each path and season
that vainly we seek to control
the silky palace of nights revenge
the desert dreaming of a storm
the voice whispering across the back of a neck,
Longing quantified and articulated
yours is the touch
that lights the forever fires
seethes the trembling earth,
