~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Midnight, and a single squirrel
with tiny boots and a postal satchel
scurries across power lines—
Santa’s freelance contractor,
paid in acorns and stale fruitcake.
He leaves a walnut for the widow,
a pinecone stuffed with stolen glitter,
and vanishes, tail twitching,
into the frozen yuletide hush.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
salt-stained envelope
softened by Atlantic mist—
your words unfold warmth
across my kitchen table.
distance dissolves
in each looped g, each smudged comma
tracing laughter
voiced across ocean waves.
A VW Beetle
An unloaded thirty eight
In the passenger seat
And out through the gate
A briefcase of secrets
Chained to the wrist
Memorized instructions
From an unwritten list.
In the event of an ambush
Just pop five rounds in:
The only trouble was
They were sealed in a tin.
We weren't even sure
The rounds were live anymore
The tin was dated
Nineteen Fourty Four
These were the days
Before mobile phone
Just the courier and driver
Out on their own.
I suppose in a way
It was a bit of fun
Time out of the office
When you did the Courier Run
It never happened of course.
And we delivered to the Yanks
Who took our case
Without any thanks.
They treated us
With such disrespect
You’d think they’d decided
They’d be fighting us next.”
Briefcase of new secrets
Chained to the wrist,
Memorised directions
From that unwritten list.
A VW Beetle,
Unloaded Thirty eight
In the passenger seat
And back out of the gate.
Gust of wind lashing and it's pouring down;
Storm water runs off the deserted roads.
A swift rider going from the downtown,
Bearing safely the most delicious loads
For orders, kicks his heels at the canteen.
Collecting the silver foil packs of food,
Setting directions on his mobile screen,
Reaches drop off points in a cheerful mood.
Waggles here and there like a busy bee
When will the guy return to his own flat?
May be at odd hours, but no guarantee
Serving his patrons, he always aims at.
Brings home the bacon, the Courier Boy
Assures his family a hope and joy!
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Date: 23-07-2022
GOODBYE JOHN ^WW^
Now that our best friend has flown with his warrior
Wings far and high, we are certain a celestial courier,
Will send our thoughts prayers and poems,
Directly to him so that he’ll always know,
That he’s missed, RIP Dear John, sure you’re in euphoria!
A little man for such a big title.
Rosy cheeks flushing the blue of his eyes like birds from a bush;
Charisma came to mind as his eyes met mine.
He was the big guy I could tell
By the stiffness of everyone else
In the straight faced entourage
Seeing right through me.
His Holiness...
Or humbleness
Perhaps gave this guy his clout.
2/6/2020
How about you?
Shaken
Stirred
Crushed
Mixed
Shot
Spilled
Topped off
Set on fire
Rims salted
Served over ice
With a splash...
Oh, you mean to drink;
Give me anything.
Dry.
***
I am no more than an Courier
A wanderer through life
Words are what I choose to cling to
Purveyor of the times
Spending forbidding moments in the desert
Just to watch it bloom at night
The chilling winds that blow the stinging sands
Help create that which I write
I look for answers in the greyest of skies
Where there's no limit to the powers that be
The howling wind changes the shape I'm in
That only the darkness it can see
The river that flows freely from my soul
Starts out where this life fails to end
And when it reaches its destination
The tide will rise again...
Spinning spokes upon bustling narrow city streets
A two wheeled mouse amid prowling motorized cats
Plays games of timing and finely tuned awareness
Sudden bus stops, springing car doors, and Jaywalkers
Each can be found within the dealer’s loaded deck
The sound of coasting, click, click, are barely heard
© Copyrights G. Jones 2008
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