Poems
by Anita Nabonne
Ambidextrous Art
Writers sing poems
of painters painting the poetry
written by Jack of all trades -
all in tune
with the artists and writers
awash with melody's brush,
waxworks of
watercolour songs
burst from their tired larynx.
Alabaster
I touch my hands to the ceiling,
just one idle afternoon,
flatten my palms
to see the bar -
to feel the extent
to get the measure of my limitations -
and the plaster cracks
my powdered ego
falls about my shoulders.
Spluttering, I wipe away
the offending particles
of my superficiality -
I frown at the superficial damage
and dust to survey
the impression I have made
and the dents to my alabaster.
Stairway to........
if
notions
were potions
would oceans dry
up and volcanoes fume
until the heavens coughed
and torrential rain spears fell
down piercing the ground til wave
upon wave of weapons ran in tidal bores;
or weird spells be cast like we were created
as the dinosaurs departed with the use owitchcraft
and trickery of bearded old mens wizardry or was it all just
a bad dream, or perhaps the hopes of a crazed false profit on drugs?
Fatigue
Is a tepid moon glow
poetry - and within it
a still scene of serene, black sea
incomprehensibly holdingits arms out for me?
So then death be my slumber,
stillness be my peace,
and placid waters run eerilydeep
consumed in depths
of lead buoyancy -
serenity is my slumber
now that death has beenlaid to rest, buried deep
in its tortured grave
of
war's overkill.
Retro
I said goodbye
like to an old pen pal
infrequently visited,
but landing postmarked
on my lap
with the unwanted laments
of sweats that cling to strangers
passing on their greetings
to hands of my
indifference and clammy
opinion -
I had said goodbye
to menopause.
Marionette
Twisted fibrous strings
command frivolous play
at jointed limbs.
We dance and are jigged
woefully rigged
when each jarring movement
is in turn deliberately
fraught with venomous tugs
Each jolt brings attempted revolt,
but the puppeteer snarls
our lifelines become gnarled,
entangled in his bitter torture.
Unravelling his capture he spins
and mocks till we are unmeshed
shocked till we dont know if we are
coming or going.
Wooden shoes clatter,
as smaller figures who dont matter,
play to an audience
and bleed
into the pockets of the puppeteers
greed.
Swift but doleful we have become,
dancing to the puppeteers hum.
Lifeless, hung out,
no route of escape.
We dance and we clip clop
a charade
man made, pulled
and lulled along
by a succession of tyrants
who just want
to see us wriggle
and squirm like
the moth eaten marionette
always ruled
once unfurled.
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