Archive for April, 2020

The New Aloof

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 18, 2020 by dc

Paranoia leaks
Into hushed rumours
And bent intrigue,

People panic buy
And keep a close eye
On their favourite things,

Social media is awash
With repetitive self-help guides,
Viral videos and the kind of

Simple horrors you’d expect
In unexpected times;

Even the futurists are running scared,

And the best developers know
There’s no true algorithm

To predict a return to
Our daily routines
And the next normal.

Kitchen cupboards strain,
Fridges swell,

Everyone’s looking for someone
Or something to blame,

Every wheeze brings a query,
Every headache a quiver,

Old folk can’t stop wandering,
Teens keep on huddling in parks,
Everybody’s jogging,

Snitches buzz the hotlines,

Neighbours mutter in bursts
As they stare across the street

Whilst clapping for the NHS,
Aggressively belting
Their pots and their pans;

There’s a voice sat
On everyone’s shoulder,

Suspicion and worry
Are the new unwelcome lodgers
In everybody’s homes.

There are songs
On Tuesday lunchtimes

Because the bar’s already open
And strange times bring early thirsts,

Old stories flow
And they’re funny at first,

Minds drift and
Reminiscing hits its peak,

There’s a rustle and then a silence
Throughout a million front rooms
Whenever politics rears its head,

No one’s talking about Brexit,
Politicians look bemused,

Sweat glistening for the cameras,
Fluffing lines and shunning boos.

By the third week
Everyone’s crying about pubs,
Gigs and restaurants,

Desperately searching
For funny videos and memes
To brighten the mood,

Pockets of love bloom,
Wildlife flourishes

And the internet coos
Over photos of dolphins
Returning to Venice,

Every screen has a cat on it,

Air pollution drops,
Blossom bursts,

Pop stars queue up
To embarrass themselves,

The super-rich turn to ghosts
And the low paid become heroes.

In the echo of post truth,

This dark comedy,
The new aloof,

Seven and a half billion people
More distant than ever before,

Everything just a number,
Without any real score,

Socially distant,
Persistent but flawed,

We’ve been here before

But this time it’s not war.

Those Wandering Mammals

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on April 13, 2020 by dc

Those wandering mammals
That romanced around fire,
Drew past adventures on walls
And ate what they killed,

Thought the moon
Was the sun at rest
And the night sky
Was a huge sliding wall
Shuffling stars
Every time it sensed sleep;

They followed patterns
In the hope that danger
Would bow to their routines
And offer up rainfall and warmth,

They looked at new birds
Like startled deer
Caught between safety
And the sudden unknown,
They licked plants before picking
And shat into holes;

They rarely found joy
And lived their lives scared,
Hope was random and basic,
Love was merely protection,
Joy was simply survival and
Tears were the sea’s sour echoes,

Insects buzzed eternal,
Mountains joined the sky,
And their rivers never ended
When the world was built on why.

An Odd Pockmark

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 12, 2020 by dc

This garden’s epoch,

Odd orchids that breath,
Inflating then deflating
As the years rattle by,

Grass curling like hair,
Trimmed in the cyclical breeze,

Wildlife curdling and morphing
As decades spin in split seconds,

A melting pot of exotica,

Plants that died nameless
As they sprouted new prodigies,

Sweet symmetries shuffling
Between angular growth spurts
And distorted perfections,

Flowers competing for beauty,
A dance of nature’s supple muscles.

The Holocene absorbed and more
In an oasis of debonair verve,

Hidden as civilizations romped,
Preoccupied and diseased,

Unaware of the evidence
The Earth has an odd pockmark
Left forever unexplored,

An atmospheric scar
From an impact unexplained,

An almost utopia thriving;

Weeds shading fresh fruits,
Bushes twisted with colour,

Trees that only grow down
And stretch underground
Like a huge wooden nets,

Psychedelic floras
Kissing spores and modifying,

A soft, looping song slowly swelling
Across the lawns and vegetation
As ecosystems bubble and pop.

Ten millenniums worth of machinations
Whirring just beyond,

Technological revolutions humming,
Wars that stifled bird song,

The rapid reproduction
Of anything with a breath,

And the constant corrosion
Of that sour human touch –

All far away from this garden,

This untouched Galapagos,

An anomaly free of all anguish,

A virgin fluke left to flourish
And hush like a murmur

As everything else
Slowly burnt.