Bent askew, with shadow straight as a die
reflecting my every move and mood
I dwelt upon the hidden grace of being bent.
For curved things are strangely stronger
than straight things, so rare in nature.
So prone to shatter to pick-up-sticks, straight bits
when compliant and inflexible.
Fearing the wind will turn you into a statue
if you flap, furl, curl and yield to change,
and take a backward step, arching back,
away from the straightforward.
Red and black lights ping off the glass,
Inviting her up to the door,
Into a world noone taught her in school,
To a world where she wants so much more,
More life, more lessons, more tools of the trade,
A parade of flavors of sauce,
Wobbly gadgets made to distract,
That she’d only ever seen on a horse,
And rabbit ears and rings and powerful things,
Things that go bump in the night,
This world of wonder covered the walls,
Vibrating plugs all covered in stripes,
Then back through the door with brown bag in hand,
And some sort of big fat cigar,
She walked in a line, as straight as a die,
Hiding a smile she walked straight to her car.
Two lines in his head as straight as a die,
Lead hard through the cold and the dark,
Between the cliff walls of grime covered stone,
Through tunnels carved straight out of rock,
To the light at the end with love layered warmth,
To the field of green, red and pink,
Flowers escaping the grip of his demon,
Where he allowed his split mind to rethink,
About how he released his abandoned story,
Left memories all quiet and still,
Grew new healthy thoughts into streets of flavour,
Over tracks, over gates, over hills,
His once full and busy mental train wreck,
Sits rusting at the start of the summer,
Alone amongst millions of beautiful flowers,
With their vividly transparent colour.
forgive an walk,
talk this talk,
get rid of the nagging pain,
yes poetry does squeak n squalk,
when loves thoughts sear again,
but catch her eye, straight as a die,
don't let her get away,
the hunters eye, transfix and try,
till laughter's here again...
thank you Russells Sivey,
"Horrible Woman."
Don
Dust motes swirled a pirouette, ponderous stardust
in the light shaft capture, straight as a die;
fired to my chest from the crack in the tiles' armour,
right on target, unnerved my eye.
Laser sighted from the sun, a dot of vibrant gold,
I froze and fixed on it's accurate dart,
it's aim was painstaking and true as death
struck the naked breast, drilled my heart.
There was no real pain, just imagined,
no fatal wound nor spurt of black gore
to decorate the dust drab attic wall
and spill my life across the floor.
Stood here forlorn, forgetting my reason,
the crawlspace and pyramidal ceilings
mirrored then the yawning of my mind,
that chamber of decompressed feelings.
And you, your ghost, or a scent of what we meant,
breezed in, grave trespass upon my cold reverie;
and the inner child wept of grief and longing
for things to be the way they used to be.