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Wayne Power Poem
Sorrow
My sorrow can swim my sorrow can fly
I’ve tried to put it to bed but my sorrow wont lye
It’s not only well hidden behind a smiling man’s eyes
It has so many places in which it resides
It’s in the flowering fields with a hundred wild horses
Soon to be given the whip and made to tread courses
It’s in the clouded young mind of an innocent youth
Hoping the prescription pills will help find inner peace and truth
It’s in the proud glaring eyes of a father watching his young children play
Wishing the moment would last forever instead of the one scheduled day
It’s in the words of a Doctor giving an expecting mother bad news
It’s in the prick of a needle by the people that use
It’s in the loud boisterous laugh of a whiskey fuelled voice
As he tries to drown sorrow with his poison of choice
It’s in the tears of a family when a loved one has passed
It’s in that Mystical River into which sorrow is cast
It’s etched deep in the hands of a working class man
Providing for his beloved family the best way he can
It’s in the heart of a coloured man ridiculed for his race
Pretty soon you’ll find sorrow written on the racist man’s face
It’s in the royal children’s hospital waiting room chair
It’s not hard to find sorrow sitting in there
It’s in the steps of an overweight ladies journey she embarks
Sick of the snickering and sneering and constant remarks
It’s in the 2 x 2 cell getting taught life’s harshest lessons
It’s in the homeless man’s trolley with all his worldly possessions
It’s with the millions of people fighting a battle inside
When you go looking for sorrow it’s not that hard to find
So when sorrow comes calling be sure to answer your phone
And acknowledge that it’s too big a beast to try and tackle alone
Endure the best way you can all of life’s undulations
Knowing that sorrows a train that will stop at all stations.
Copyright © Wayne Power | Year Posted 2016
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Wayne Power Poem
Born to different fathers they were never that close
But their mother insisted they keep in touch
They never had much in common apart from the love for their Mum
One was drawn by the magnetism of corporate trappings
The other mesmerised by wailing guitars and thrashing drums
Hair looking like a ruby ball cactus, eyes wild and piercing
Did he land face first in a tackle box? No one can be sure or is game to ask
Whilst Prada adorns the chiselled body of the astute looking banker
Clean cut freshly shaven with a healthy amount of Giorgio Armani evident
Hours of pain are clear to see on the colourful skin of the punk rocker, all with a story I’m sure
Many a brow is raised and resembles a plague of fox moth caterpillars at a rave party as he enters
In the up market drinking hole he’s as inconspicuous as a free roaming Emu in a supermarket
White collars fill the air with murmurings of big deals achieved and salary bumps
It’s a Friday afternoon and an air of animation is evident in the words of many
The banker orders another round; more beer and water promptly arrive
Concern is forwarded to his brother fearful of him falling in with the wrong crowd
Genuine unease for the circles of friends in which he chooses to associate with
Party drugs, binge drinking, womanising and all night benders all entrenched in his everyday life
Why can’t you just go home to your wife baring flowers like you used to he asks?
A grunt is all he can muster as he swills on his beer, your losing touch with reality!
And then like a boxer waiting for his opening he hits him with a sympathetic plea for more money
A look as if his team had just lost the “Big One” with seconds remaining decorates his face
I can’t keep doing this he replies; He then calls their Mum “it’s time for intervention!”
The ink covered rocker is in tears as his brother embraces him; I love you he whispers together we will get through this
He escorts him to his private limousine waiting out front
One of the many perks of being an internationally acclaimed artist.
My manager knows this great facility…..
Copyright © Wayne Power | Year Posted 2016
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Wayne Power Poem
Black Fruit
Sweat on his brow from the labour of his fruit
Which seldom does grow despite his tireless pursuit
Maybe it’s the soil in which they were planted
Lushes trees that did flourish now stand disenchanted
Once a garden of beauty now bares a sinister side
Malevolently murky where evil does hide
The frail gardener’s hands are no longer so strong
And a persistent voice does remind him of all of his wrongs
It’s not his guilty conscience just a sickening trend
So familiar and demanding does this voice always lend
He thought the bellowing shotgun would make this burden soon cease
As well as the frenzied concealment of every godforsaken piece
As the day is consumed by darkness and only the fog is his kin
To the disdain of the gardener her voice will never give in
There’s no worthy fruit of his labour on which to survive
He lies in bed cold and hungry shotgun by his side
Fifty five years of memories have tainted the soil
And the fruit when it grows shares the same shade as oil
The torment and anguish scar like a deep wound that’s long bled
He’ll soon marry again it’s to death he will wed
Now the gardens neglected without the Old man’s repair
But the smell of ripening fruit does now fill the air
Copyright © Wayne Power | Year Posted 2016
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