Long Clippings Poems
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Place : 2nd
When we first met, in love we used to glide
on waves of bliss like pairs of sunglow swans,
now we slowly totter,and try to hide
our orthopaedic socks and thick long johns.
We still hold hands like back on that first date
but now it's less a gesture, decades on
else I'd walk off ahead then have to wait
while you found something firm to lean upon.
You said you'd like a skirt to match your eyes
I did my very best but must confess
I went to every shop but no-one buys
or maybe no-one sells a bloodshot dress.
you run your fingers through my hair a bit,
these days I marvel just how fast it goes
these greying locks ,well, what remains of it,
from off my scalp and southwards to my nose.
Annoying habits met with just a sigh,
you snoring on the sofa after tea
or ducking as my nail clippings shoot by,
or leaving used bags out when making tea.
Love's outer shell is merely just it's name,
inside it's precious pearl remains the same.
Inside an old library of things uncountable;
clippings, extracts, jottings, and snippets.
The air is musty, thickly clothed,
muffled and club fingered.
Incidentals are listed
on the cuff of the half-remembered.
Mind dust wafts from one place to another;
a library in pieces.
A young librarian approaches,
behind her, books are falling off shelves
like rotting fruit.
“Dinna fash yersel,” she says,
an old Celtic grandma peeps out of her eyes.
The enormity of things pecks and probes.
Outside, volumes are opening.
I perceive a book in every object,
thousands of pages contained in every mote and atom.
The sky begins to write, both an old and new testament,
it is editing every word into the vast simplicity of
I Am.
I missed the autumn leaves this year.
I rested while they fell.
Tomorrow is another day
we'll hear the church's bell.
The days seem slightly shorter.
The sunshine rather keen.
Closer is the horizon
and night a cooler scene.
The smell of leaves surrounds me.
A wiff after a woft.
The wind shaping the future.
My fate become aloft.
Plastic drapes the gardens.
It's cold air sealed in.
Condensation top-side
and dust where sun has been.
There's trimmings by the roadside
bagged and tied with twine.
Pruned to end the season.
Clippings from the vine.
A garden hose gone missing.
Stored inside the shed.
Drained of all it's water
and exhausted in it's bed.
The dew upon the grass blades
beckoning the sun.
Each morning leaving sooner
as Autumn comes undone.
A note pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off.
Legs are a late harvest of the indigent.
Their limbs carry a visual poverty
long after the body is plucked.
In a small room, I separate
muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels.
My scalpel seeking out fascial planes.
The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet ingrained in the tissue,
I sense residual shades of a life.
Seaside postcards and old photographs,
war ribbons and yellowed newspaper clippings.
The gray flesh retains its memories.
There’s a wife behind his knee,
bone whittling winds have not erased her features,
her youthful form still entwined
around ashen ligaments.
A child climbs up from an ankle bone,
as a sinewy plasma -
it has no substance of its own,
but borrows and gathers a varicose presence.
Sights and scenes invest
a limbs mangled landscape.
Images that can’t be cut away
by living hands.
Some imagine they dissect a limb,
but I turn bloodless pages,
read images once squirreled away,
that now form these sinews
of a journey’s end.
A ticket pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off - of course.
Legs are a late harvest, these often-indigent parts
carry a visual poverty long after the body is plucked.
Under watchful eyes the young medics
separate muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels, hesitant scalpels
seek out fascial planes.
The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet, ingrained in the tissue
I sense residual shades of a former life,
seaside postcards, old photographs,
perhaps campaign ribbons, odd tokens
amongst yellowed newspaper clippings,
all briefly surface as conjectured images
beneath a probing knife.
The gray flesh retains its personal history,
I imagine that behind the knee
there is a wife, children, and a separation
all spectrally etched between femur and tibia.
Much of the ensuing bone-whittling years
are demonstratively scored
across a formaldehyde and jelled narration.
The students suppose they dissect a limb,
while I notion that I turn over bloodless pages,
of an unwritten story,
and now the last few attached ligaments
remain as threads that speak at last
of a long journey’s end.
Lying here between the folds of an uncaring sheet
A thunderous blustery evening calls me from sleep
Tracing shadows on dark walls through desperate eyes
Counting minutes on a clock’s reflective markings
Rain drips from altered eaves steadily, slowly falling
In syncopated patterns on damp grass clippings
Teasing my mind in the endless possibilities
Of what my desires, even at this hour plead
Your image finds me, still and silent
Questions come in long sentences
Breaking down dreams of distance church bells
Wondering if we truly could be, together
Will you ever find love again, could you
In the arms of one who imagines your beauty
Tastes your lips in midnight thoughts
Feels your skin on chilly twilight sighs
Of this I write, not because it is who I am
But because it is what I was meant to be
Poetically entwined, metaphorically wrapped
Draped upon your heart in phrases of collected verse
Read aloud as a smiling sun approaches
Whispering your name over the horizon’s wonder
Echoing of this affection that drains my soul
And longs to breathe you for the very first time
From my pen flows lonely ink
In lace-like frilly fonts of an italicized nature
Curling around these words penned in the dark
Hoping you see, hoping you read, hoping…………
Too little
too late
God said to me
in this dream I had about fate
So I asked him
what did he expect,
A goody two shoes
a prophet
a saint
to be something I ain’t
Not at all he said
I want to be entertained
Eternity is boring
mostly people snoring
especially at night
and during the day on occasion
Look god! I walk around an
Amazon warehouse all day
pigeon-holing tat
picking this and that
How am I supposed to amuse you
Well I do enjoy you
breaking stuff on purpose
sabotaging the line
Bunking off for a smoke
going to the toilet
and drinking erm… doing coke
Ok hands up!
I admit
I’m a total chancer
and do stuff I shouldn’t
But it’s alright isn’t it
that Amazon place is full of s-hit
Yes it is a terrible kip
but more fun when you entertain
Like in your last job
listening to you lie
not taking the blame
asking me to help out
In your moment of doubt
All that stuff you stole
and barely got away with
on the whole
That was quite funny!
Oh the (paper and plastic) I gathered,
before selling it to the highest bidder
Throwing expensive stock out in the trash
The owner was a bastard
all things considered
a miserly swine
But nevermind
Thanks!
I did need a dig out that time
Hey! remember when I was aged about 7
and was told my pal went to heaven
Why did it happen
A year later walking to school with another kid
he was only 8
And that nut-job attacked us with a hammer
Put a hole in my friends head
The blood pumped in fountains of red
I thought he was dead
All the gore I’ve seen
witnessed a killing at 18
Trying to hold down an abattoir job in between
Yes! Life ain’t pretty by design
sometimes the stars just won’t align
Others times they go nova
and leave black holes behind
still you’ll never really understand
The powers in command
So how about this poem
Will it see me home
Does it amuse you
are we cool?
You’re still alive aren’t you!
By
David Kavanagh
dayspent; a good exhaust,
swaying and feeding
praise to the Lord
with mucho-mucho girlfriends;
one hundred percent strangers
except for my best friend;
except for the entire room
sees the Lord as the living end,
making us all sisters,
except there are men on the stage
as well; a few brothers-in-Christ.
better spent in the company of angels;
two protagonists wise—
no one wants to trade for their lives,
the suffering they’ve seen
except Jesus did.
we can’t imagine an act in another’s shoes,
our own we’ve already lived through— our witness.
altar calls; come one and all.
when sisters fall,
we catch them,
sit a spell,
listen and pray
until they're well.
I’m squeezed out
like a drenched rag,
bedraggled hag -
in put-together clothes.
we turn ourselves inside out,
let down our “rapunzel locks,”
especially after this pandemic
that goes on and on and on;
packed together like sardines—
we don’t care, as we let down our hair,
let our fears fall like clippings to the ground.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Amen!
10/2/2021
*mucho-mucho — emphasis of a great quantity
**the living end — something quite extraordinary
Orion.
The winter constellation.
Stellar.
I could:
Learn.
Not that it’s horrible to have my mind filled with grass clippings.
It’s not rare to be this way.
And they reminded me so.
Orion.
In the winter, he is visible.
Invincible.
I don’t think constellations even know about anything.
Just looks down and tattles on me.
Told my mom my future.
Toppled over, like my lips and drool.
Orion.
I wish I was such a constellation.
Who has hunting abilities.
Without even knowing what he’s hunting.
Yet he’s:
Stellar.
Typical.
Able.
And even though he’s in space, he’s more grounded than me.
In the winter, I may not be stellar.
Or typical.
Or able.
Or mystical.
I don’t have a story like Orion.
I just like strawberry ice cream.
Orion.
I bet he trips sometimes and somehow no one sees.
There’s a big thump out in the universe.
No one acknowledges it.
Grrrr….