The Bricklayer

Bleeding knuckles, torn nails,

the wall about his bed remained.

Uniforms passed through, ghosts,

changing drips, injecting morphine

that killed the pain but not the past.

The bricklayer had made his bed.

Mum and Dad had dug the footings

of his wall, his fort, his prison.

Piss in his cot, poo in his pants.

Don’t touch your penis ...

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The Violinist

Fingers moving to fragments of chords,

he tries to connect to sounds in his head,

but buried in sand, notes slip through his hands,

and the roar of the sea takes over.

Fingers strumming invisible strings,

he can’t understand what they’re doing.

His fingertips sense a tune he can’t hear,

and the naked silence takes over.

T...

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'performance'  - maybe, 'poetry' - not.  Audio inspired by the Eurovision Song Contest and a few pints, with music by 3-fingered George.

Thirst

I'm sitting on a tractor seat
loading bales of straw,
with spool-valves at my fingertips,
dusty eyes rubbed raw.

There's seven hundred more to cart
but thunder's in the air;
and many hours work ahead
before the field is ...

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Had another go at last verses

“Despite their dementia  they do remember well that they have a family that is never here for them. They call their names into emptiness, and cry at the thought of abandon .” a comment from BBC website

Dementia

I cried and sucked their teats. They drew a face on me

 in their own image, one I never asked for,

constructed a smile and ears to...

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The School Mistress

She hides behind walls of hollow words,

clay words baked by burning hopes.

Words moulded from mud and straw

surround her dust drenched days

as desert dunes drift the passing years.

No bells ring from these ramparts,

no wisdom wrung from these  words,

no new life flung to find the heavens.

The silence of expanding stars listens, learn...

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