A Poem a Day (108): Fields

Written for JD Mader's 2minutesgo writing site. Head over if you're feeling creative :)

Fields

Pages slashed into pieces of green,

Verdant patches of guilt stitched,

Where even the owl lies diagonal,

Stretching out brown wheat wings, 

Gusts of feathers eroded in crop circles.

Lines part and reunite in dust. 

Blue skies crease, scowling

On hidden pathways etched. 

Glass cracks dance as ice people,

Interspersed by light so bright it blinds

Where mountains soar in monochrome. 

Everything floats here, losing the innate,

And even the lines between are evaporating.

We live in spaces already carved by figurines,

Sculptures dumb walking pages long torn,

Reorganised into a mirror of something new. 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, September 21, 2019

A Poem a Day (107): Down, not out

Written for JD Mader's 2minutesgo website - head over there to write, read and comment. Have a good Saturday. The sun is still shining!

Down, not out

Get up, fall down, drop out

People aren’t dropping out for fun,
It’s cos they don’t know how to be any more

Cardboard cut-outs scrawl a life’s pain,
Sound desperation’s mouthpiece of want -
A small request against a backdrop of have

Businessmen glide past the invisible ones
Shuffled into urine-stained doorways,
Rushing to a deadline conjoined with cash -
Humanity at a discount, 50% off,
You won’t find this bargain off the high street

We’re all walking the edge, this delicate balance,
Sky-high rents amid competition for space

They’re hawking pubs and venues for inaffordable homes.
Miss a rent to swap your room for a cardboard box,
Setting up shop in everything you own in hope
That someone will find a drop of empathy and stop

Get up, fall down, drop out

People aren’t dropping out for fun,
It’s cos they don’t know how to be any more

Do you have something to fall back upon?
Did you save enough in case the deck falls?
Did you lock it away safe for that rainy day
Cos the flood’s coming and you won’t have a say

We’re all fragile urns beneath our blind arrogance,
A step away from a slip, a fall, a plunge

A scrap of a dog barks in a lurid neon alleyway
And you feel he’s you, lost, cold and alone,
Looking for shelter, somewhere warm to lay his head

But the Man is busy counting out his pounds
And he hasn’t got time for the waif and stray,
So carry on whining because no one can hear
While the rents go up and winter crawls in to bury.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, September 21, 2019

A Poem a Day (106): Sunburn

Sunburn

Through the red dirt drag shoeless feet,

Scrawling lines. Standing small, little hands

Draw stickmen in oblong cars upon a wall,

Bare arms tea-stained by the blinking sun,

Brown freckles sprinkled liberally on noses.

A cloud-white scruff of a dog grins, hanging idle,

Head held crooked, razor tail shaking in time,

His pink drooped tongue looking to catch a fly.

Barking, he chases every drop of dust and chalk

Round and round, loping, lurching, haphazard.

The shimmer shammer of brief minutes tick by 

Like hours, waking blue glimmers of neon dragonflies, 

Aliens from a forgotten time, translucent wings

Flickering, catching an essence of light to return it

To the waiting sun.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 6/September 16, 2019

A Poem a Day (105): Malcolm

Malcolm

It all comes down to you,

And a number, often forgotten,

Ever revised.

But you brought it along,

Paid for its keep, treasured it,

Almost fed it like a pet.

Sucking your hopes and breaking your

Bones.

It strayed unpaid while you

Cowed and counted.

A dollar for your dreams?

Old man, can you not afford to pay now?

I can dispel these inadequacies,

Promise a return on your investment ­–

The sky’s the limit, someone said,

But Death won’t forsake you in the end.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 27/September 15, 2019

A Poem a Day (104): Twitchy Witchy – a fairytale parody

Written for JD Mader's 2minutesgo writing site. Head over to write, read and comment. Have fun. Cheers.

Twitchy witchy – a fairytale parody

Cinders didn’t care much for an uptight ball,

Choosing to hang with the Big Bad Wolf,

As they called him – those three little piggies

Who hid, quaking in their little straw house.

Funny how tattoos and a cigarette can give

A cool wolf a bad name among some folks –

And that house would blow if he had his way.

The Wicked Witch of the West laughed hysterically,

Catching a ride to the ball on the back of her broom,

Wild tendrils of hair catching birds on the wing.

She’d stop now and then to tie up the innocent

With her red stripy stockings, her hooked nose

Poking into everybody’s business unwanted,

Ever seeking a little seed, to disturb and water

Until it became a destructive furtive force.

Her jaunty cackles roused the monkeys baring

Their wide pink bottoms in placid obedience,

Trotting gormlessly behind, nodding to everything

She said in making her grand witchy entrance.

Back at the castle, Cinders tends and mends,

Sweeps the last of the ancient cobwebs away,

Sending sticky spiders scuttling to each and every

Corner, seals the bolts and exits the back door

Into the melting sun and wildflower streaks,

The forest here long laid bare by Sleeping Beauty’s

New in-laws, through which a golden lane wound.

“So you didn’t want to go to the ball, really?”

The Big Bad Wolf asked, clipping a troubling claw.

Cinders thought for the briefest of seconds. 

“No,” she said firmly. “I know who I am. 

I don’t fit in with my sisters and I never will.”

The Big Bad Wolf nodded, full knowing the sting of

Stigma personified. Taking Cinders’ arm, he led the way

Up the yellow brick road and threw a bean to the sky,

Sprouting an ever-twisting beanstalk in their wake.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, September 15, 2019