Category Archives: Fifth Year

Follies

Follies:

No one and nothing is mine,
and who would want one when
one brings only bad ones? And
who would want nothing when any-
thing is much better?

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The touch of familiarity.
The look shared of trusting eye.
He blinks not when he stares:
the same trick from he to me.

If he stares not at me,
then I’ll stare at him. He played
a song for me: well-played.

___________________________________

Who’s the John who looks like
he’s waiting for his Vietnam draft?

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All hail the follies, they that all remain!
After all the fires, after all the
too-late rain.

All hail our not-so heavenly
follies that lead the way to
deceit again.

Don’t read over my shoulder, the greedy
reader one. I curse your spirit
and wish you far now roam.

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28 August 2017

The two accordions
sound like mice squealing.

Oh so different from last night.
So it is, subdued
demeanour and silence strong.

The men talk to men,
I talk to no one.

My mother on the phone line
telling me her life.
Quiet smile and untalked nods.

The garden needs mowing,
the husband never does.
Quiet disharmony ruining
perfection on this sunny day.

She’s the one to go, I return to my
GMT. This life is a simple one,
if one allows it to be.

Follies

The Prodigal Daughter’s Return.
Missing the last chapter.

_________________________________

Jealousy starts once more;
I’ll bash it down. If it’s
justified jealousy then off
my merry way I’ll go.

_________________________________

Finer is the tea tasted when not you who made…
Alternative is true for the
Guinness pint given freely to you.

An apology:

Make dirty a page of new.
My own design, my own to choose.
I know it’s a sin, it’s a wrong
to do. To bring the past upon a
page so new. There are no
conjunctions, there is no hope
of Christ redeem. There is none
of that when white becomes
unclean.

The fault is mine, all here
agree clear. The burden
of resurrection is one
that Pontius could understand.

The sin of woman outmatches
sin of man.

Wounds well sutured still
tear in time.

I don’t care to believe this,
the way I am.

But to die, to be true – the
larks of jealous tone colour
my name and actions of all.

To try my triumph,
to fail my past.

To colour anything so darling is
skill,
sharpened with my own mouth’s axe.