hired sycophants | poems | J Matthew Waters

Meta/ Phor(e) /Play

Graffiti

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J Matthew Waters

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There’s a wall without slashes of social unrest,
without lines of prejudice, modesty or complaints
not even a good thought
clean and quick to the point
might make others laugh, angry or uneasy.

It makes me uneasy to see such a wall
anywhere within a public stall
upon a school desk or through walk tunnels.
To see such a wall of inhibition
of emptiness
of conservative thinking
like not sharing thoughts, ideas or secrets
makes me wonder
when the liberators will return
to save the free walls in this free land
from backwardness
from idleness
of single bawdy colors covering progress.

Dove on Western Wall
Temple Mount, Jerusalem
©2006 Michael Dickel

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Horseless Chariot

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J Matthew Waters

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Bring me back pictures
from Paris
or better yet email them
as you take them
with your lovely friends
who really aren’t your friends
but hired sycophants
who follow you

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Changing Scenes by Carolyn O’Connell

I am not a silent poet

Once the meadows shone with colour
strings of white, blue, red &yellow,
left to flower, seed, spread, only plucked
by children’s hands . But now they quiver
on the verge, while fenced, the meadow
sprayed and mowed is bare of blossom.

While in the gardens flowers bloom
tended by the caring hands that
work and watch their efforts prosper
encouraged by passion for a flower.

Yet each season thwarts their efforts
rain falls in places far too heavy
whilst others gasp for water as streams
vanish through ever drying winters.

Hidden in the land the rigs plunder
oil and gas to feed our need,
while out at sea the remnants of our
throw away economy are ingested
by the fish we eat, and the coral’s colours
fades to deathly grey as temperatures
rises ice melts the poles. The bear
and penguin search for safe routes.

Even the jungles screech in…

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Return to Aleppo by Sheila Jacob

I am not a silent poet

He hammers plastic sheets onto windowless frames.

She sweeps brick dust outside where bulldozers groan

through rubble and it circles back, she’s powder-faced,

swollen- mouthed, coughs stringy phlegm into a towel.

He smooths her hair, promises life will improve if they

pray, work hard, this is their home, their  jewelled city.

Their cold, leaking flat shovelled clear of broken glass.

He walks her to the Citadel, fingers a crumbled wall

and weeps. He’s a good man, doesn’t rage about losing

their son last year when a qunbula  dropped too close

and the child came too soon, slipped from her like a red

wax doll. She buries grief; humps water from street tanks,

scours markets for food while hollering lads chase empty

oil drums, wear striped woollen hats lettered CANADA.

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On the Seventh Day by Sarah L Dixon

I am not a silent poet

On the first day

the earth was stripped of coal,

the trees were burnt

for the good of the future.

A future that humans

will not inhabit.

On the second day

the last of the farmed animals

were eaten

and in a meat frenzy

every other land walker:

cats, tapirs, porcupines.

On the third day

the oceans and lakes were drained

the rivers dredged

ending and eating all marine life,

waterway fowl and fish.

Narrowboats were grounded.

On the fourth day

most realised that

consuming life and fuel

did not make them feel more alive

but had begun to make them dead

from the inside too.

On the fifth day

the dawn chorus was silenced.

Roast starlings and poached magpie.

Blue tits and wrens were loud

annoyances too small to snack on

so beaks were tied tight with teethed tags.

On the sixth day

the last humans were tied too.

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Mutants by Nick Cooke

I am not a silent poet

Bursting out of our own skins, we

grow every second, unstoppable

as accelerated beanstalks, except

we are purple and yellow and not

especially thin, but contrary to rumours

we mean no harm. You can’t get a handle

on what our genesis will do for

world and atmosphere, since

we know no more than you what drives us

into being and twists our biology so.

We only know we’re abnormal

from hearing it a million times on your TV.

The more we multiply the more

normal we get, n’est-ce pas?

You see, there was you thinking we was dumb

just because the news implies as much;

but when our supersonic sprouting ceases and we

stand before the cameras as finished articles,

we’ll put out a press release aimed at

celebrating mutant culture and all

that’s gone into its hitherto obscure making.

That’ll be a pile of fun, will it not?

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