Poetry Website

meeny miny
moed from glossy
black and white
single-sided brochures
at the check-in counter
he said he was just
the gatekeeper
his job was
to not let anything
get past him

he kept to the script
yes—no
questions—answers
did I want to harm
myself or
others

he divvied out a month’s
refill of normality
he was the gatekeeper
his job was to
maintain status quo

it would take
referral to at least
a bi-fold brochure
to get anything
past him

More at http://wlc-wlcblog.blogspot.com/.

This Evening’s sanity is bending
as Midnight once again steals the show.
Unfathomable undercurrents
in the sewers of this grating situation.
Emotional icicles groaning whilst growing,
bursting floorboards and windowpanes
in that little hideaway cottage in your soul.
A chance of escape from this is brutal,
perfectible unreasonable
and almost definitely imaginary.
Don’t look away, there are things to face!
One thing at a time? No, we’ve seen you
counting much better than that.
Time is impartial to treason,
it’s a conveyor belt and nothing more.
Yet, The Hour Glass is always watching,
its granite justice ticks and tocks
as you unsuccessfully try to manipulate
and harmonize the energies and rhythms
which keep you nailed within that box.

More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

This poem is for the recently departed
Mr. John Ram, a dedicated co-worker
who was found one day grazing in a field,

and who now exists in the halls of this
great company’s memory, a horned figure
once stuffed into a business suit, now
mounted upon the wide victory wall.

Their steps clack
against the empty rooms
full of dust and debris.
Names hang above
the doors, but they are
not known. Not really.
Their better selves
they keep in back rooms,
stored up in corners,
pushed out of the way,
while they tour their new
place where comfort
has decidedly gone away.