Archive for July 18, 2008

Anything or Nothing

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2008 by dc

It could be anything
Or nothing,
A country walk down a lane,
A stroll through a forest,
Underwear in the brambles,
Loving arms by the oak tree.
There are roads
That we could travel on,
There are words that don’t exist,
There is time
To kill and wallow in
But the time
Is ripped to bits.
It hangs on the oak tree
And rustles in the bushes,
It staggers like lovers
And saves both our blushes
With dusk.

Dorothy’s Lucky Finger

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2008 by dc

Every Sunday afternoon
She would gather children
Around her garden pond
And show them all her carp.

On arrival they would notice
The finger that she pointed with
Had more wrinkles on it
Than a bowl full of figs.

They would stare at it,
Wide eyed and transfixed
Before looking towards the fish,
Smiling and gasping with glee.

She called it her lucky finger,
It made people listen
And kept their attention,
It had an air of real magic.

She decorated it with two rings,
One had a red stone in
And the other had a green,
She could hypnotise moths.

She said she’d once
Switched television channels
Just by pointing and thinking,
Her finger was a gift from the Gods,

It could gauge the temperature,
Make dogs dizzy,
Predict the coming of storms
And sense danger.

It was a thing of true beauty
Like a fossil or a rainbow,
A lighthouse on a foggy night
Or a dream that might just be real.

Her biscuits tasted stale,
Her lemonade was sour,
She smelt musty and awful
But nobody cared.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2008 by dc

I swallowed my pride
And it hurt,
Like a viral infection.
My glands got swollen,
My throat felt like glass,
I could taste blood
On the way down.

Sunk in a beanbag
Angry with the wallpaper,
There’s a mountain to climb
When you’ve swallowed your pride,
Blood tastes like metal
Like a small bridge to somewhere,
And that somewhere I hope
Is back in your arms.