Friday 21 February 2020


Poems should be unique works of art and expresses the ineffable in a manner that speaks to every human. No mean feat, a tall order for anyone to contemplate. But we do more than mere contemplation. I have no idea how many poems are produced each day, each hour, or every minute around the globe. I suspect that more poetry is produced than there are people to read it.
Here's another one to add to that morass.

the butcher

Today he wears his salesman face,
a sober suit but no tie,
relaxed, casual, all smiles.
Each word is emphasised
Help us to help you.
A reasonable transaction
We can all benefit from this.

Then my shirt pocket vibrates,
it's the redundant past calling.
Normally I welcome the overlays,
reality shifted a few degrees.
Then I look up catch his other face,
the razor's edge, the copper taste
and each word rings hollow.

This poem follows on from an earlier one. It is set one year later. The killing is over, for now, it is negotiation time, and no one wants to hear ghosts.

Here's Ryley Walker looking very well.

Until next time.

No comments:

Post a Comment