Questions

Look kindly at the torn disguise

A truer she is tentative below the surface.

A little bit of madness is also probable here.

She hasn’t eaten for days.

But I am aware,

What lies below there,

Is a monster I too am afraid of.

If she gets out.

If she stays.

Out of bravery or cowardice

Look , won’t you, kindly at her madness.

She is likely to be a beautiful one.

Perplexed slightly by whose creeds to follow.

A little insane perhaps,

Especially when she probes at celestial things.

Her perceptions founded on unsophisticated science.

The kind one would not pain

their faculties to analyse.

 

Writer’s private thoughts:

I mean, you are very busy peasants.

Hoarding gold,

Saving your marriages,

And satiating everyday busyness with football, ice-cream or a holiday excursion.

And truthfully,

She is a naïve little hobbit.

So I’ll excuse you.

But I hope you will finish the poem.

 

Whose world is this?

For what purpose am I designed?

To hoard gold?

To qualify for matrimony?

To satiate everyday busy-ness with folks?

Where are we going?

To whom are we going?

Are we ready?

Do we even care?

Are we fools?

To go on living,

With vague answers about our end.

Who will pray?

The ground is very dry.

The sun stripped out all the water from her shed.

What now remains is

dead soil.

Silent.

ungiving.

Empty.

 

We cry at the sky,

that it may crack a little,

and appease the draught.

 

Who will feed our crops?

What about seeds we planted yesterday?

Will the sowers be abased?

Will we eat from our land again?

 

But mostly,

Who will pray,

While the hypocrites mourn...

Funeral blues

by W H Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

12 years

A giggler at heart.
A very pretty face
A perfect reminder of Jesus.
A mother of many  miscarriages.

In a permanent exam, at home.
One tiny lapse,
the penalty:
A torturous slap, a preliminary hell.

 

The husband.
A kind spirit.
A gentleman.
Yes, a sauve hypocrite indeed.

It has been 12 years.
12 years,
and that bustard
has not pleaded sorry.
12 years.
endurance has been thoroughly tested.
tonight though,
will be critical.
reconciliation is not an option.
the elders can deny her.

firstly.
pack jesus away.
brew the poison.
ready the boiling water.
file the kitchen knife.
9pm he will return .
drunk and vulnerable.
wait for him.

tonight.
He goes to the morgue.