poetry

Entitled

Saturday morning blues.
‘Let me sleep for one more hour!’
you yell yet whisper.

Dreaming of something
to do with Russians, mowers,
and manicured moustaches.

You’ve got a thing for the
Way moustaches grow, move,
and fly about demurely.

The Russians excite you,
as you think about bedding
another Oligarch or two.

Today will be a random kind
of day where you become
a semi-exciting philosopher.

The cat looks at you with
her resting bitch face;
she’s plotting your demise.

You knew when the two of
you met that the cat was a
capitalist, yet you melted.

She reminds you of your
tricky dilemma: Justifying
21st-century slavery.

You move from your Egyptian
Cotton sheets to your lush carpet,
then to your opulent shower.

‘It’s a hard life being so philosophical’,
you say quietly, yet you’re a CEO of a
company and you just fired 40 people.

Looking in the mirror, you can’t see it;
there’s an entitled air about you and
it moves with you through your life.

You play the down and our philosopher,
yet you don’t care about people;
just the clinic of gold bars in your safe.

The cat looks at you with disdain;
She swipes your leg with a paw, then
runs away to her food bowl.

You know she is just like you,
yet you better go and appear as though
you care for all those slaves.

Eat your fruit and vegetables

Taking the piss,
hating the morning.

They made a tape;
called it, “Eat Your Veggies”.

When dawn arrived,
they turned up the sound.

It was the sound of a fierce
wind against their windows.

Underneath,
a subliminal message repeated
the words,
“Eat your fruit and vegetables”.

After a couple of mornings,
gardening utensils, trucks,
and gloved hands appeared.

The street is known as,
“The Fruit Bowl Street
of the South-East”.

Now for another experiment.

Shadows at Dawn

The moon’s outline in the sky
tells my body it’s too early for another day.

Trees once danced in numbers,
now sparse; replaced by houses, people.

The wind whistles down from the hills,
moving through my nightie, blowin’ my hair.

Forgotten clouds appear shyly,
creeping closer to the moon, hiding her outline.

The darkness and the light interweave
leaving strange shapes and shadows at dawn.

Whispers from the shadows and the wind
call me back to something known, yet unknown.
I retreat inside, knowing well I should have listened.

This Land

Moving in the wind,
the full fabric moves
in this ancient place.

Burning heat sears all,
as the sun burns down
upon this arid land.

Colours of the Earth,
different burnt colours
not shades to dispute.

No European delicacies
need remain here,
for the sun burns it all.

Singing moves on the wind,
an ancient song forbidden,
to pay tribute to this land.

The Special One

A small finger points
to the sky, as
they lift off the ground.

The meadow, distant now;
Hearts pound hard, fast.
Fear mixed with awe.

The small one shows
them the flowers, meadow,
the horizon, beautiful light.

A small finger gently releases
them from the spell of levitation,
as they smile, kiss, hug,
and drink a toast to the special one.

Afternoon Tea

We sit together for tea
with cups, saucers and
the old willow teapot.

The afternoon sun moves
closer to the end
as the chatter moves on.

Wishing wells and time
come to mind for
many unknown reasons.

The teapot empties
staying that way for a while;
we continue appearances.

A sound from the teapot;
no, this must be a mistake.
The teapot becomes a shell
and, the music of the sea plays.

No one else seems to notice
the teapot, playing songs.

She’s calling me to her side;
I decide to visit the sea
and ask her for her hand.

The Raven

No one visits,
no visitors visit
her home.

More witch than woman,
they say
something like that.

Living alone stirs rumours,
tales become more,
soon blood may flow.

A beauty, despite the time.
She refuses to brush her hair,
many curls, a bird appears.

Black eyes know the
way to and from this
world to the next.

The chimney sends smoke
puffing thick, into the
atmosphere.

Careful, the leaves
no trace of who
she once was.

Only what is needed,
she takes from her home,
the place loved so well.

Moving on, she sets her
home alight, so no one
will find what she felt.

Hearing a burning place.
The moor is hidden,
not a living soul around.

Gone before the judgement
police come knocking,
and kill her with stones.

Like the Sun

Version 1

Like the sun,
you bloom spring colours.

Attentive,
you behave like the snow.

I cannot decide
if you are the
sun or the moon.

I like to think
you are both
the sun and the snow;
beautifully complete.

Version 2

Like the sun,
you bloom spring colours.

Attentive,
you behave like the snow.

Like the moon,
you mesmerise, lighten.

I cannot decide
if you are the
moon or the sun.

You are many.
Sun and snow,
moon and sun,
winter and summer,
autumn and spring.

Notes

I thought I would show you multiple versions of a similar poem, as this is often the creative process I go through to get to a final version.

I’m interested to know which one you like better.