Woke up this morning with this poem almost perfectly clear in my head – including the title. Clearly, the UK elections are getting to me… and my optimism is at an all-time low.
don’t you see
your words rain blows
but mean aught to me.
through your filthy mind
thrashing legs, crawl to stay alive
to others your story might still
turn inside out and confess.
But every drivel
you let slip out
lacks movement, light and substance,
there’s only shadow in your clout.
I’m linking this to Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub. Come and see what our poets are up to when there are no constraints on their imagination!
I’ve been mired in bad news trickling ceaselessly, babbling brook,
of downgrades and bailouts, unemployment figures, austerity,
revisions of economic forecasts, shelling and bombing, rigged elections-
all the bitter poetry of our times.
You can handle it once.
You hunker down for the bad times, provisions laid, windows boarded,
when hurricane strikes you put your head down, hold hands with your family,
even like the enforced cosiness, the simplicity, the fear now shared.
But when storm after storm buffets your nest? When supplies run low,
And your hell becomes other people? When temporary becomes fixture
And still there is no deeper change, no molecules reformed or restructured?
Just furtive squeeze made manifest.