Archive for modern poetry

The Lick

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on January 25, 2020 by dc

In the garden
Where the singing starts,

Sipping ginger gin
From a porcelain tea cup,

Talking to the weekend,

Soaking it up.

Blue tits dance
On the graves of dead pets,
Chirping skits like broken toys,

Noises drift then collect,

The chattering mayhem
Of scattershot school kids,

The curdled melody
Of a downbeat ice cream van
Trundling into Autumn,

And the cliched repertoires
Of the local cranks and toddlers

Assemble to swoop then ferment;

There are bats as dusk leaks,
The air is ripe with mischief,

I was nothing when I came here,
Now the lick is bittersweet.

A Coded Song

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 19, 2020 by dc

Huddled tight,
Then star shaped,

A muddled murmur
From the bird’s nest,

A coded song;

I roll back and settle,

A hot breath
Of thankfulness

Amidst the shifts
Of contentment and zeal,

The warm pop
Of a softened nebula,

A regular melody pulsating
Lightly and lustrous,

I drift off and gleam.

Tickled

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

It slinks across the viaduct,
An index finger
Caressing the shoulders,

A tram’s trimmed shadow
And the window framed
Quiver of a cityscape,

A lamp light dawn,
A siskin flutters,
A golden coin turned sepia,

The countryside rolls,
The field mice scurry,
A giggle echoes, arches quake,

And then the world stands still.

Clues

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 2, 2020 by dc

Watch as clarity melts
In the ballads of the sighing,

In these gossamer reflections
Brewed up in reveries,

Voices lost to empty space,
Opalescent shimmers,

Like translucent winter breaths
Or phosphorescence in a swamp,

Milking frequencies
From thin air,

Off-white in the sky,
Blinking as clouds drift,

Pocked with cavernous holes,
Letting murmurs breathe,

The sounds of old trains
Creaking to life and the hum
Of a village now lost,

Simple loops and routines
Transmuted into wistful nostalgia,

Winter ghosts weaving
Their tales through the trees,

A knowing light
As the dusk shuffles in,

Fragile pleasures
Warm as clues to the ear.

December 2019

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 1, 2020 by dc

We watched the truth
Get twisted and contorted
Like sausage-shaped balloons,

A clown in the middle
Of a malformed circle,
Huffing and puffing,

Bending and stretching
A huge sack of facts

Until they reappeared
As small, lumpy mammals,

Floating and squeeking out
Rubbery mantras,

Just a single pin prick
Away from disaster.

That Pen

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on December 28, 2019 by dc

Trapped on a chair,

Staring at a square of nothing,

That pen you keep
Is the spark of madness,

The dust on your sideboard
An abstract plain where

The white takes to shapes
And the shapes turn to colours,

The quiet of night coalescing
In the back of your mind

As ideas run wet
And feed rivers –

How it works doesn’t matter
As much as the need that it must;

Voices and patterns,
Swaying and cooing,

Twisted stories and songs,
Fragile glory and hope,

A golden scatter unmined
As rhymes hook and bend,

Swathes of rich trickery
And hues shone electric,

An abundance all slathered,
Ripe and alive.

Based On A True Story

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on December 13, 2019 by dc

In the corner of an old
Dilapidated mansion,
Two dusty mammals
Farted a thought into a jar,

They added spittle and pubes,
Skin cells and
Sunday roast meat cuts,
Then screwed the lid shut.

Nine months later,
Ripe with mould and strange spores
It was ready to wobble
And coagulate,

The large dirty jar
Could hold it no more,
It was born on a table,
Laid out for just one,

It wriggled and winked,
Fumbled and strayed,
It stained all the linen
And roamed round the fruit bowl,

It emanated
Stuttered grumbles,
Guttural pops and loosened burps,
Squelching as it evolved.

Keepers came to watch it,
They whispered ideas
And trained it to move
And gesticulate,

They rolled the pink blob
Through a mound of fine cloth,
Whispered mantras in Latin
And taught it to talk,

They gave it anything it desired,
They plumped all its pillows
And said they loved all
Its drawings and endless random questions.

Its childhood was a painting,
Its adolescence was a film,
Its twenties spawned a dozen kids
And its thirties spoke of doom,

By its forties it was destined
To shuffle to the top,
And now its fifties sing the hollowed croon
Of a mistake we cannot stop;

And it’s only now we ruminate,
Sat underneath a painting
Of that old nameless mansion
And the creations it used to house,

Powerless by request,
Confused and all full of regret,
Fretting over the future
As we shift like silhouettes,

We connect and rhyme in shifts,
Drift then slowly moan,
Waiting for the next jar
To steal the old blob’s throne.