Acklum

Ceci n'est pas un poème.

It's only a poem

when there's a butterfly

to grace these lines

with it's eye for rhyme

faked on fluttered wings

(in lowercase)

or a bird to sing

of the things

we hide within

our feathered hearts.

There should be moonlight

to glimmer

and a lake to hold stars

maybe glimpsed from afar

and a lover to yearn for

imagined in your arms.

Quibbles such as "If

the moon is up, shouldn't it be

a moth?" belong

to soulless prose

"Je suis un poète!"

Add a rose with thorns

for a metaphor

and petals fall

to the dusty floor

in memento mor-

I cried into my mop bucket

then washed the floor clean.

Today I threw away my newspaper

as I went down in the river

and warmth returned.

In the shadow of the willow

I sit on the bank

trees reflect on the surface

graylings swim below –

old souls know

how the river changes.

A damselfly (in no distress)

floats over flowing water

glowing bright blue in the light

of the new sun.

A plant can grow

from silt through water

to surface in air –

minnows never see

how lilies show their flowers

to the stars.

wait stop every vehicle close

blows up

pages rush past dirty breath

exhausted earth

sullied soil

solid gas air lungs

chokehold

burn eyes burn tyres

tired

burn it all down

faster progress

more commerce

inedible goods

indelible harms

all consumed

sacrilege to chew

each day wake face silence unknown

terrible known

each day mourn

for another

almost

another each small day waning from

another borrowing

too much to find worthwhile

not at all

needed

respect each choice

each dry day

chosen

after months

desert eyes have water

sprung from dream depths

flood dawn under dread oceans

disconnect

another

not me

not directly seen

nevertheless

hold experience

helpless guilt

each day

never the less

love

nevertheless

Heaven

to get outside

when the sun shines.

Rats scamper happily,

extractor fans whistle.

I listen.

No demands

just daylit reality.

Sand set in concrete sparkles,

a dandelion leans out

from beneath the wheelie bin.

Today the loading bay

feels like heaven

to me.

flowers nod, yes

and tremble

soft shadows

sun through petals

sparrows bathe

in dust

feathers flutter

fragile, fleeting

breezy days

agree

gulls soar grey against grey over the vast ocean of car park

one day I will be fine

flood lights shine white light despite the sun clouds build up high towers pressure piles on

for the next few hours I have to forget

when it's time to work roll up my sleeves to hide where rain has dampened fabric

too late to pretend I don't care

it'd be peaceful here if not for the road

nowhere to go but shopping

thirty precious minutes

before sign in

sun shining hot

through mandatory dark coloured trousers

this is what normal people do

on a Sunday

I guess

watch them move along

on slow meander

from car park to checkout

so much more to need

than sunlight and time

heavy bags to carry

picnic area always empty

you don't come here to rest

unless

you're waiting with pen in hand for a shift to start

or happier amongst pine cones and bird shit

than sanitised commercial seating

the air down here is polluted by petrol

but it's free to look up at midges dancing

under a blue sky

no purchase necessary to sit

we always find ways to survive

the scavenging sparrows and I

cold room grey floor full of unused stock

learn new systems to disguise profit as care

numb toes heavy door full of potential

exit must remain for your own safety closed

ancient aching temples

full of charts, spreadsheets, tables

nailed down to prevent upturning

halos ripple around her

white face, eyes focused

she dives repeatedly

right into the sun