Photosynthesis

Trudging through the day,
weighted
no reason to mimic the sky
listening to the crimson
love-calls of the clueless purple people
Blue competing with yellow
in confusion turns to green
Photosynthesis struggling for it’s say
amongst the black and grey city scene.

Last Tree Standing

They came with bulldozers and chainsaws

Tagged numbers on our trunks

Beasts ran for the hills

With retracted claws

They felled us, cut us into chunks.

I watched silently as they came for me

Branches trembling in the breeze

A whistle blew, I knew they'd be

On their way home now for their tea.

The horrific day turned to night-time black

I await now for them to come back

To take me to the others on the stack.

23rd July 2009

'musings' on the closing of hospitals in rural areas - it's personal.

What do you think you are playing at
You self-serving bureaucratic
whine and diners?
Could you push your heads any further
up the place where the sun never shines?
These useless lines, these futile rhymes
are all I can do to try and quell
the rising anger, thoughts of the hell
in which you will fester, you jesters
fooling with my mother's life.
You have a wife? a daughter, a son?
Well, play on then, it won't be long
Till you reap what you sow
and btw don't you know
You are murderous twats
and that is all I have to say
about that.

Fiocle 6th July and angry.

Sunday - in the pouring rain.

How am I going to lug the gas cylinder down to the shop,

never mind in the pouring rain?

It will be four trips, in the pouring rain.

One to get the trolly,

One to bring down the empty

One to bring back the full

And one to bring back the trolly.

Make that five, another to return home.

So five trips in the pouring rain

to make soup.

Yes, I think it is worth it.

Cut and dry.

Nothing is,

what crumbles between your fingers

when touched, like thoughts, that once

were deemed so important,

now lie formless beneath your feet.

In a manifestation of repressed emotion

your tears evaporate into the ether.

Lost in the mist forever wandering

the time-warped forest, wounded, snarling,

you reach out across the gorge.

Chasms filled with untold thoughts,

stories with no beginning

tales with no end.

Pain, joy, pain again,

a light peaking through the cloud

snowdrops falling

you run the rickety wooden bridge

you jump the broken, rotting slats

dashing back towards your lost memories,

Infernal fire burns behind,

you know there is no return.

Succombing to the senses.

Will quick, awake, alive.

Survival rests in every cell,

no prophesy can ever tell,

what round every bend will show,

a taste of heaven, a smell of hell,

and things you may never, ever know.

Fiocle March 2011.