Monday, 28 October 2019

A Poem a Day (113): The Grudge

Written for JD Mader's 2minutesgo website – head over there to write, read and comment every weekend...

The Grudge

Again, and again, and again,
This repetition strikes us dumb.
Sensation shifts where it was not,
Where it stalks, singing lullabies
Of the dark, where it talks the talk,
Spinning a web as a spider does.

The wasp keeps its guard up,
This misted time is not for us.
These things fall loosely cluttered,
A word count of naught unchanging.

Laughter lifts where it finds itself
Loitering in a pause,
A semi-colon stumped.

We read of the silencing today,
Where caustic hues come to merge,
Seeping deep into the margins
Washing sprightly across the page.

Jumbled words seek order,
A pattern to emulate a song,
And sung, we remember it always.

Where the Grudge stalks by day,
It will find the pitch secreting in,
Raw dripping walls drawing closer,
Its path narrowing and narrowing.

Jump! It says jump, but this falls flat.
Walls come down when sanity prevails.

This dark-coiled snake eludes itself,
Stealth-like plunging an illusion of teeth,
Ego twitching, forever finding fault;
This delusion confounds us all.

The lost wander through gristle churning,
Vomited forth from the Grudge’s hate,
Thirsting on twisted entrails, gouged without.

Just a stab in the dark, it growls.
This veil reveals and conceals the wolf
As the crowd grows weary in conceit.
They hear the sirens wail,
They hear the walls thunder in.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 26, 2019

Friday, 18 October 2019

A Poem a Day (112): Spiral out

Written for JD Mader's 2minutesgo website – head over there to write, read and comment, and be inspired/inspire...

Spiral out

Torn nerve lines of cabbage leaves
Trace new countries, waiting wounded

Silences leave me dead, fluttering,
The wings of the butterfly seared

Accompany me into this red desert
This place of dry, unwilling longing

Spiral, it spirals, it yearns, it burns

This colour corrects, consumes, replays,
So we drift within it, seeking out

You play the fiddle as the sky opens,
Flinging tears across this battlefield

Where times sleep, ravaged, open hands
Still grasp this earth, a sense of self

Spin, it spins, it feeds, it curls

And I see what you have lost, where
You turned wrong, unknowing, unseeing

I feel the desert cry in wrack and ruin,
Disobeying you, turning its back

The rain lies heavy, sinking, pulling you
Down into the mire of autumn’s breast.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 18, 2019