Categories
poetry

Old.

Where is?
the hard skin of the pangolin
the quiet strum of the mandolin
the rhyme, lilting, from time to time
replaced by prose, line by soulless line

the discipline within the schools
a youth that know the law, so long before
the wrong from right, destined surely,
their lives upon the walls, scrawled in colour

the fish that used to plough this stream
now thick with slimy sticky stench,
that greased the gears in factories, echo
their purpose long forgotten

the odd looking man, who’d rant and rave
complained this world’s an early grave, and waits
to suck the you, the me, and him, he’s dead.
Instead our handsome men, more polished
stand, stare and talk as prompted, as those
that hold their strings, whose tune they dance,
with guile, guide

the worst, the best?
I’ve lost the which, the why the will
to live this way, I’m off, hand back my debts
to the banks, no thanks, they’re yours to hold,
“Dear Sir,
all money is theft, or property, perhaps?
Kind Regards”

the solution, confused? dust off those sandals,
wear that crazy shirt again, live somewhere loose,
remote like a cave, no bats, just relax
with a view of the sea, and warm, maybe,
a picture on the wall, fading, a family
to remind me how it used to be…

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!