Enter, enter dearest friend,
rest your weary wings
and leave behind your sorrows.
Fly closer, closer,
to kiss your harrowed face ‒
closer, even closer,
to sweep you in my finest lace.
Sleep tight now, dearest friend ‒
wrapped in webs of wistful warmth ‒
as I crouch here by your dozing self,
spinning sticky tricks for travellers tomorrow.
The Spirit of Christmas
Dragging footsteps: ”shuffle, shuffle”, getting near.
Snuffling, wheezing, a rasping voice:
”I know you’re there.”
So much dust, I must have air.
I breathe, I sneeze. The noise. The fear.
Lying still ― a fly ensnared.
At first the tattered glittered hair,
then the ruptured baubled stare,
and last the triumphant hunter’s cheer.
Let it be known to all:
The Spirit of Christmas is here!
Against the pearly whiteness of a cinematic queen,
I shimmered with an enticing and legendary sheen,
surreptitiously a star in many scintillating scenes,
until recklessly ravaged by ruthless go-betweens.
I was purveyed to the palms of a pretty maid,
in return for favours of a much darker shade,
but malice made the maiden’s marvel fade
and so began my wanders through the starless trade.
I saw her casing crack and flap away in haste,
a chipped bauble was she, and half-crazed.
On shabby velvet I lay with others gone to waste,
yet, too expensive for those without any taste.
“This ere’ – a buckle for the missus Sunday shoes!
I was fondled by filthy fingers declaring: “Two!”
The pawn-broker raised his eyes, sapphire blue,
shook his hardened head and stared him through.
Awhile they stood their ground, then settled for three.
I faded further, as I reflected on my dented fee.
The wife: gap-toothed and greedy-grinned, glaring with glee.
My view: the flouncing flaccid flesh of an overweight knee.
Shod was she, and I – shoe-riding mile after mile,
through gutters of slop with waste running vile.
Splashing through puddles, a yellowish green bile,
a lady dressed in best, ‘cause the fish-wife had style.
She gained a stone and I lost two – then four.
Now a piece of worthless scrap forever more,
I thought as I came undone and fell to the floor.
Groping the ground, she wailed and swore!
Trod on and trampled by countless, yet noticed by none,
until the precious hands of a child turned me round.
I mingled with the cluster of other treasures she’d found,
of illustrious backgrounds that would truly astound!
Still much in love with her street urchin souvenirs,
her workshop sparkled below crystal chandeliers.
She beheld me with onyx pupils, dilated as in fear,
and whispered excited: “A necklace, my dear?”
After many long years being treated like trash,
once again I catch the eye of every amber flash,
where I sit in pride of place, uniquely re-hashed,
and reflect over a century of contrasts’ clashed.
No Concern of Ours
There ‒ the beginnings of all ends,
and the ends to all beginnings,
neither enemy nor friend,
In endless circles spinning.
Below ‒ in full insignificance,
on a lump of much abused mud,
we struggle with the dissonance,
of fickle minds and savage blood.
At this ‒ our self-inflicted last hour
without covering shade or proof,
we burn by the merciless power,
beneath a mutilated roof.
Unrelenting sheen blinds the eye,
(never mind the ductless tears)
skin blistering, sizzling as it fries,
the time of all our fears.
Is this the benevolent mother?
Or is it the hell-fire demon?
Giving rise to wonder?
Or harmful rays beaming?
There ‒ the bringer of good,
and the root of all evil,
and deaf to cries primaeval.
The smouldering giant above,
with no care, no concern,
no forgiveness, hatred or love,
should we flourish or burn.
Yes, a burning behemoth,
a solitary sailor in the sky,
giving us warmth and light,
by which we live and die.
The child who faded into the wall-paper
Entangled stalks and faded petals,
advance along the walls,
oozy stains long since settled,
dampens every lively breath.
Bottles rest in seasoned poses,
trays reveal such rancid ashes,
splaying bodies slowly decompose,
alive, but putrid nonetheless.
The telly’s blurting lurid sounds,
distressing lights contrasting,
showing carefree lives beyond,
at this ungodly morning hour.
Dawn reaches through the window,
sending forth a ray of sun,
creeping slowly towards the corner,
enhancing filthiness and grime.
Softly kissing a tiny toe,
a form crouching unaware,
covering with a golden glow,
the boy who’s hardly there.
A shadow on the wall unfolding,
afraid to stir the sleeping beasts,
glides among the faded patterns,
on a hunt for stuffs to eat.
He knows his way, he knows his time,
he knows the retributions,
should he linger for a while,
no more an optical illusion.
He creeps and sneaks and crawls around,
as nimbly as a fawn,
when all his needs are swiftly done,
he retires back into the wall.
Entangled stalks and faded petals,
advance along the wall,
among the stains long since settled,
he’s hardly noticeable at all.
The reclining beasts begin to stretch,
they moan and grunt and swear,
grabbing round their throbbing heads,
calling for a boy who isn’t there.