I Owe Matthew Richards an Apology

A bale of turtles makes me smile,

for reasons only two of us know of,

one, a fool, whose folly

was to know too much, but failed

to trust in the indecency of instinct,

the other, a sustentacular friend,

spurned a life-time ago,

the pandemonium of parrots,

causing chaos in creativity,

the naivety, never overcome,

one learned to nibble the nails

in the cross, let rage recede,

as the page will bleed,

and let wisdom come

with an overwhelming of children.

 

Event Horizon

Eyes, like aspergillums,

an intermittent trickle

and sprinkle of salt waters,

that sing hymns and belt out

anthems, simultaneously.

Famously, the fickle fates

of fathers, are the sires

to daughters of destiny,

kings that felt doubt.

Posthumously,

the poet’s page reaches out,

a crime, defying time,

most humorously.

 

 

The Page

I stare blankly at the page,
The stark white, empty space,
Teasing me,
Daring me to do something,
Anything to fill the void.
The page taunts me,
Whispering like a pretend best friend,
Beautiful lies and ugly truths,
Testing me, the ‘writer’
And doubting my ability
To control the page’s insatiable hunger
For poetry or prose (any words, I suppose).
I sit quietly and reflect,
Wondering if inspiration will find me,
If I wait long enough.
Words wither if produced vehemently,
And fail to impress even myself
If delivered with unnecessary vocabulary,
But then I realise:
(Whilst seething inwardly
At my recent lack of literary productivity)
That I am not alone in my thoughts, as
I stare blankly at the page.

©Kieran Davis