Friday, 16 March 2018

A Poem a Day (71): Look!


A flash poem written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writingexercise... It's every Friday-Sunday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.

Look!

Waves, mountains, flowers, rocks,
A set piece we can readily disregard,
Aimlessly wandering our streets with
Scant regard. Mesmerised by our phones,
Nodding heads, muttering beneath our
Breath, never noticing with whom we collide,
Like blind men following; mice racing
Around our little cages, stumbling into the
Gutters over life. This selfie rocks me, this
Total makeover, splice of tune, the shock of
A moment savoured read this news, revel
In this fake news; see this vision, yes shes
Naked. Who are you? Who am I? We collide
Here, not noticing. I graze your hand so close
Yet you dont even look up, so intensely
Following what youre reading, what youre
Staring at what youre not looking at is life
And its passing you by, winning the race,
Leaving you way behind, whistling a happy
Tune, the accompaniment of your boredom,
As you stumble into the road and oncoming
Traffic.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 16, 2018

Saturday, 10 March 2018

A Poem a Day (70): F47


A flash poem written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writing exercise... It's every Friday-Sunday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.


F47

It’s breaking, this stasis,
Where we are caught,
Demanding a reckoning
Beginning on an equal
Footing – respect, a full
Consideration of who we are.

We have this right,
As you have always had it,
Despite the way you try
To hold us back, hidden away,
Controlled and rejected. Yet
I pity you, pity this idle need to
Erase us. Are you so weak
That you need to call us so?

We are the same, think the
Same, breathe the same.
Cut us open and you will
Find the same. My heart
Beats the same rhythm.
Yet, in a way I am higher
In not seeking to deflate,
Push you down, demoralise
In conjuring up excuses to
Annihilate your identity.

I am me, and you are you,
And I know who I’d rather be,
Into and beyond equality.


Vickie Johnstone, March 10, 2018

Saturday, 27 January 2018

A Poem a Day (69): The guest

A flash poem written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writing exercise... It's every Friday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.


The guest


I am the guest,
The unnamed one who trips and trots
Through closed rooms, opening doors,
Seeking ways to understand whats gone.

I wander with a heart long emptied,
A dying sound is all I emit from dry lips
Unheard of, these gems of dust fly
From myself to you and back again,

Senseless, these things making no sense.
I dream of finding a penny while you die,
And yet I know you have no care,
And for this reason I will not despair

When you are gone. I will not sink.
I will not dwell on past things long gone
Or think to ask you a yard of questions,
All unfathomable, dried, twisted, cold.

Can I still speak when you fall ever silent?
Will you hear me when I rack and wail?
As the walls close in to embrace me cold,
I know Ill remember how all this I sold.

I am the guest
Who wanders in and empties out,
Drifting on these small gusts of memory,
For everything else is long gone, stolen,

And we are but the remnants of our selves.


Copyright Vickie Johnstone, January 27, 2018

Friday, 12 January 2018

A Poem a Day (68): Fifty-six

A flash poem written for JD Mader's 2minutes go writing exercise... It's every Friday, so if you fancy writing something - whatever you feel like - head over there, or just read the flash fiction and poetry.

There's a story behind this one. I started a poetry course yesterday as my writing needs a bum kick and I was chatting with two of the women in the class at the end. We challenged each other to write a poem for homework, giving each other a line. I was given the final line of this poem to use. So this is what I just came up with.



Fifty-six

The night sighs heavy when it stops to think,
The curve of the light a distant cousin,
The nail in the wall a reminder of hate;
It creaks,
This going forward, always coming back –
A tortured walk is this half-dazed oblivion,
Yet I seek it
Or it seeks me,
Day in, day out, week in, weak doubt.

I like to remind it not to be late,
Not to forget to close the door behind it,
And so it is,
This creeping remembrance lost
Of my selfish conscience,
Flapping like a dried-out fish…
Obsolete.

I like the sound of obsolete.

I can trick myself I’m nothing like,
Yet I can see,
I have eyes,
Two of them,
Though this vision of me blurs still –
A twitch at the sides of a smile says so,
This tortured style of mine.

But tell me this:
Did you think of me today or wonder
Who I indulged these languid hours with?
I was alone, but you won’t know this,
You never ask.

But you’re always here, waiting,
Sucking the bar dry until I reappear
To accompany you between the butts,
Breathing the smoky lungs we share,
Reminiscing, laughing, choking
On our fears, always bigger than us.

And so today I will retell a joke or two,
Watch your grin creep up into a drawn bow.

You know I value these simple hours,
You know I’ll always come back,
Dragging my half-spilled bloody baggage,
Bearing my very bones for observation,
Knowing you will never be my judge –
I came for a half and I got a hug.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, January, 12, 2018