POEMS // TWO

Being a writer, the best kind of validation for you work is the reader connecting with your piece and interpreting it in a different way to someone else. I was absolutely thrilled with the feedback of my recent poetry post and feel much more confident in sharing the work I do. Working on my writing for three years has seen so much growth in the variety of work I produce, especially my poetry.

Ticking

I have no fear of death,
Only the fear of time.

 He lurks quivering
Until reaching hands of
Clocks strangulate lungs between
The paper thin skin of
Forgetfulness.

Time is mans

True monster beneath the bed,

A final falling petal of a

Summer flower, the last bus

From a static station.

It clings to every meeting, every

Fragile kiss, exercising its power

Over cups of stale coffee,

Un-ripened fruit dwindles, through

The early morning meetings, school runs

And shopping trips.

The real tragedy of ticking clocks

Is when the gentle chime ceases

Leaving behind only memories of

What could have been.

I have no fear of death

There is no time left to fear.

Siren Song

 Translucent water, how you lap the shore
Pebbles rejoice on barren sand.
Fingers graze frosted skin
Daisies entwine over laced hands.

Voices upon the Easter wind

Call out over hill and dale

Dress of white, face of snow

She stands carved, a life gone stale.

Indented footsteps upon earth’s floor

Breathing laboured, dragging bones

Eyes flourished with melancholy desire

Her voice grates those ghostly tones.

Feet burn to run, mind cannot comprehend

Impending night walker’s air

Her hands reach out, paper thin

Fingers reach through soft hair.

Mists reach their hands

Crashing waves, ferocious sea

Nobody lines the sandy shore

Not a body to be seen.

Wasteland

A wasteland of bodies lying scattered
behind rocks and ferns
and through the silence I scream
but no voices can be heard, no response is seen
but I run, where to, I do not know
watering eyes, bleeding feet, quickly retreat.

I have no cares, because this
this was not what I was told would happen
when I turned eighteen years old
shivering from the cold, as my fate unfolds
every story unravelled, so many untold.

You marked us as heroes, you brand us as saints
but if you saw the aftermath, the smell of blood
the faint whisper of a man’s last breath, dismembered hand
then you’d think twice, begin to understand
that there are no winners in war, no valour in death
no honour in murder.

Should I stop now or continue further?
A friend, a brother, a nephew, a son
deaths of so many, yet you think that we ‘won.’

Death takes us all but we offered him a plate of souls
to take, with no cares at stake, and it all seemed so fake
these boys were not even sixteen
but the things they have seen, are beyond your comprehension
so stop your exaggeration, of heroes.

‘They gave their tomorrow for our today,’
they had no choice, and they had no say, as to how
their lives cut short would end.

Even now as I watch the sun set, I can never forget
the sound of those bombs so loud against the earth,
that we thought we’d fall off and never return.
And sometimes if I close my eyes, disguise the tears
I am there again, no screams, only silence.