24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Like me! Like me!
Seeking to be loved?
Or a mirror turned inside out
In the shadows of nothing, but
Puppet in the hands of the society
How they want to see,
You or their confused impressions, on you.
Not how you want to be graced.
In search of grandiose,
Or revealing the fresh wounds
Just like merger stints,
So much prevalent.
Insecurities exposed,
Waiting to be mellowed.
Seeking assurance,
Demanding attention,
as the petrichor of pouring rain.
Copyright © Snigdha
Cigarette smoke, frenzied chitchats,
Manchester folk in starched pillbox hats.
Ash trays on tables and wise women’s fables,
The glory of the caf’ in the amusement arcade,
After works laugh, always time overstayed,
Men in workers jeans stand at fruity machines
Hookey Street plays on loops repeating,
The good old days, nostalgia’s treating,
Hard plastic chairs, whispers of illicit affairs,
A chat, a gamble, a pint, a greasy fried dinner,
Until home they scramble, purses now thinner.
They were the mountains
Immovable, looming above
Looking down on us
Telling us we could not
Telling us we weren’t enough
But we traversed the trails
Climbed the rocks and cliffs
Over the top, and down the other side
Then moved along
Until they were nowhere in sight
They were the blazing sun
Beating down upon us
Burning with it’s touch
Demanding to be seen
Demanding to be heard
But we found refuge in the shadow
Of a tall, old tree
Laughing the day away
Watching the sun as it set
Leaving us to the night
They were the night
Casting darkness upon our world
Shadows to hide us
Fear to consume us
To tear us apart
But our dreams were the moonlight
Banishing the darkness
Our hopes embedded in it’s pure white glow
And we
We were starlight
Inside
A heartbeat bold and brave
Willing to serve or fight
Blood infused with high standards
A thoughtful mind
Strong bones to endure
Reserved lips
Generous teeth
Observing eyes
Sympathetic ears listen
Hands to lift and hold
Humble knees
Onward moving feet
A face the welcome sign
Presents a person from the
Outside
Start at the heart, if you can stomach it.
No lily-livered words. You’ve got the gall
To lung forth consonants, to spleen your vowels.
Compose your verses from the convolute
Vessels and arteries of the living language.
Give each line spine and sinew, might and muscle.
Full-blooded rhetoric with pounding pulse,
Or placid meditations deep as breath:
Give it your best shot. Go with your gut.
Nerve it all up in the skin of sound.
Let dry bones live. Make eyes taste, fingers hear.
Sing the body, electric, intricate.
Inside out
From the gut – the bones, the marrow, the soft & hidden
Places. Where who I really am hides, protected. Safe…
Sequestered behind organs that pulse inflate record
Move the seas of blood through the tiniest of tunnels.
Over microscopic bridges without names
Neural pathways crisscross the hidden me, who conceals
Her presence in the ocean thrum of inner music, plucked
Tendons ligaments the threads of artery & vein
Each with its own red voice, magnified in community
Camouflage for the uncertain
Without – the smile, the warm confidence. The careful
Lacquer of manners & skills. All the masks we wear
Over our inner lives. Silk and leather and the fey glitter
Of carefully polished words. None of it matching
An interior landscape of apocalypse
Perching
VCS
I sat on a pole
Held aloft
Under the sweltering sun
Of the rotting waste
Of the battlefield below me
I looked out of a telescope
Harangued by flies
Gnawed at by hunger
Smacked in the chest with despair
I scan the horizon
Looking for anything that moves
Hoping for rescue
Fearing more attack
From my lofty perch
I can avoid most of the perils
Of the decay of war
But I make a handy target for arrows
Or any muck someone might want to throw
There is something coming, I see it moving
Slowly and steadily it comes towards me
I take out my scroll
And my precious bottle of ink
There are plenty of buzzard and crow feathers
With which to make a new quill
I sit down
upon my perch
Listening to the sounds of death
and write about the battle
I am the only one to have survived
The trust is mine to tell their story
Survivors guilt makes the ink
Thick with survivors guilt
As I form each letter with great care
On the only scroll I still have
Waiting
The form grows larger
My fate no more sure
Than any other mortal
On my pole overlooking
The charnal pit that holds my family and friends
Here stands the reluctant petty bourgeoisie.
Corrupt with silly amusements.
Over taken with spiritless commandments.
There stands the worker.
Defeated and lost with no class consciousness.
Blowing to and from under the mighty political sails of big capitalism.
Fascism as a special characteristic cleared out in fear of socialism. Spaced out in hope of becoming masters of the State…
but, democracy, she whispers, still clinging to indoctrinated teachings-
For all intents and purposes this campaign succeeds.
For all reason and sanity it supports capitalism.
For all who know no better there is no other way.
These workers can not easily foster illusion against defeat.
Rife with instigation.
Despotic methods rule with fear keeping power.
social slavery
contradictory disguises
social evolution
Standing armies obey, Fierce complicated struggles, The making of the nations was less civilized.
Democracy is organization for the primitive man.
An Explanation
It should come as no surprise to anyone
that day should end and night should come,
as winter follows fall, and the fields turn black
or white, as the season freezes the earth.
Even the stars must burn out and die,
snuffed like cinders in the lampblack sky.
From starstuff we arise, and to the sky
we rise again, even as we are buried,
like seeds, in hopes of a resurrection
or burned, hearkening to our astral origin.
Even the earth falls back to the sun,
and the sun rises and falls into itself, a stillquiet corpse.
It should come as no surprise to anyone
that a stargazer should feel no fear
ascending as she descends
stillquiet and singing.
I’m probably nothing to worry about –
That’s what they’ll have told you
And I wasn’t before
But now it’s like reverse psychology…
And I make no apology
For being shown –
Making my presence known,
I’d rather you were appalled
Than ignored
The small risk I pose
I’m probably nothing to worry about –
But who knows?