Monday at work
I go to break
Behind the building
Away from everybody
Smoking a cigarette
Sitting on old railroad ties
The ugly green building
Is close enough
I could throw rocks at it
And never miss
The concrete silo
Stands silent gray
The weekend snow
All around me
Feel I am in the Arctic Circle
Thousands of miles away
So alone
Like the silo
Concrete gray
She goes on in my mind
Like the train tracks behind me
In my silence, will time heal all
For constantly I hear her call
All my life never felt so low
The clock in my heart runs so slow
The pain I have time cannot feel
Cut up with words as sharp as steel
The wounds are hidden deep below
The clock in my heart runs so slow
Now the days seem to drag on by
When I was with her time would fly
The ache ticks on I watch it grow
The clock in my heart runs so slow
The days have become still,
Intricate and tissue
Wrapped, swaddled, laying
Peacefully in my arms.
I cradle each one.
Each impenetrable, confusing
Entity, and wonder if the shadows
and remnants of before hide beneath.
Sometimes I dare to loosen
Their tightness, their neatness
To check they are not bleating messages
From un-severed umbilical telephone
Like cords, fat attached and still ringing
with the words of their predecessors.
But they are individual.
Silent, pink and mute.
Attentive, dependant and waiting
For me to feed, to fill them
And bloat them
With my presence.
More at https://www.jmiddletonpoems.com/.
The birth of a feathery singer
bestows a burnt painter with a landscape
comprising of two feathery opponents
one is dead and found on a heap of garbage
and other is born to ensnare the singers and poets.
It exiles all the tamed pets
smashing their old cages into dust-
usable in the germination
of the innovative seeds of earthly greed
but only for the opportunists and shrewd.
It arranges a duel between the God and the Devil
setting us around the ring as supporters
to make the field tumultuous round the clock
forgetting the killing of a poor scavenger
by a melodious arrow cast by the feathery singer.
A moment ago,
in a flicker of pique,
with a wave of the hand,
I dispersed them.
Glorious birds,
now they are back,
gold talons wrapped,
roosting.
Glorious birds,
high on a wire,
spearing the nits
in their feathers.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.
the man in the hills
an atavisitic misterer
stacked between lochs
and laburnum’s whisper
a chain-gang mourner
to the entoscopic dead
the man in the hills
mason to the head
shaping no store
for the weeping women
nor breaking no light
for sidereal sun
thamesward as mortar
graveward underwater
the man in the hills
mason to a drum
death comes quickly
cold as cobra searing
demonic as a sentry
hypnos rules the womb
the man in the hills
mason to the century
the cruel furled dreamer
young and old as ills.
More at https://jimbellamy.simplesite.com.
“I’ve faith in my feathers
which give the ability to fly worldwide
with my 6/6 eyesight.
My light weighted skeleton helps me to hop-
to plash in the cool shallow river
and to prance on the tree top.
Our species live in the flock
which is considered a form of culture.
I’m completely shocked to see man’s nature like the vulture.
I migrate on great distance
without having any hindrance.
But you’ve merely made range.
I have a toothless beak to chirp and to sing.
But you harshly cut down
my wings in a single blink!
You’ve put me in the cage
& have snatched my part of sunshine.
May I know the reason for such heinous crime!”