Still I Lie by Molly Beale

I am not a silent poet

Rise? Rise. Dust of America,
Rise

The dream.
…………………. Hope.
Empty talk is over; for under
some lacklustre God have shoulders
dropped, factories rust shuttered
how our bible gives Babylon
God’s middle finger and
apple pie-….too much
noise from bodies thigh high
diamond glinting, righteously
broken, the way I like to see;

We must speak our minds openly.
(A person who is flat-chested is very hard to be a 10)
No more bitter, twisted lies. These
fleshed teardrops scattered like tombstones, my
people in the very dirt
like air – their different reality.    Fluxed poverties,
cash flushed excite this daybreak that’s wondrously clear.
greasy dimes,  a dollar welling swelling rise rise rise,
one dropping heavy as a nation made of flies.
Robbing so much potential…

Face challenges,
get the job done.   Merely
an orderly and peaceful power transfer.  Why are
you besest with gloom?    It’s just

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After Grenfell by Mandy Macdonald

I am not a silent poet

Wiry, precise, like a wading bird —
egret, perhaps, or avocet, or stilt —
an elderly man in the coach queue
bursts out: ‘We were lucky! We had jobs!
Not to have a job was shameful; to lose
your job, a bloody disgrace!’ Startled by
his urgency, other grey heads nod agreement:
to be young now’s not much fun at all.

Round the corner, by the crossing lights,
the same young man, mud-coloured, sits each day
with his begging beanie, his hopeless, dreich politeness:
‘Spare any change?  … Have a nice day then …’
When the rain comes he’ll slip under cover, resettle
at the stairs’ foot, take up his chant again.

On the coach, two ladies of a certain, uncertain age
talk in whispers; each wears six shades of beige —
blouse, jacket, trousers, shoes, plus skin and hair,
treading so palely on the earth, they leave
hardly a glint…

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Bombers In The North Korean Sky by Kushal Poddar

I am not a silent poet

You rubbed off a name from my wall.
I strip a tissue from your brain.

Today rain mocks time’s movement.
Sleep mocks coma.

Here I scratch a street.
There your Bible salesman seeks a door.

North of all music,
cold, my umbrella huddles with yours and listens

to a dying jazzman’s cigarette-hand.
You remove blue from my song.

I operate on the rest of the notes.
Sleep hiccups- good day,

and we dream- every soldier sings.
Every singer battles within.

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Falderal by Mike Ferguson

I am not a silent poet

we are divided

we are denied

we are dying

we have

exceeded the maximum

global requests per minute

for crawlers or humans

and cannot access

safety

cannot access

a roof

cannot access

food

cannot access

peace

even if we could crawl

to any

of it

we are humans

but have exceeded

humanity

have exceeded

its care

have exceeded

its capacity

we are everywhere

but nowhere –

we are in the

butcher’s slaughterhouse

though some

speaking better than we

call it falderal

our crawl is

falderal

and we have exceeded it

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This year all the mirrors have shattered by Jonathan Taylor

I am not a silent poet

for Helen

and the mansion is a labyrinth of reflections,

corridors shards, rooms fragments, faces cubist.

Passageways lead to themselves. Kitchens

teem with the poor chewing cutlery.

In living rooms pianos have been detuned.

The library’s shelves are full of hollow books

that double as ash-trays. Few speak aloud

though refined voices murmur through walls,

locked doors. You can hear the clink of bone

china, shuffling papers, a gavel. In the cellar

there is sobbing, the clanking of chains,

the smell of burning. No-one ventures down

to see what’s there. Somewhere in the maze

is a lost self holding a loved one’s hand

but you’ll never find your way back again.

On coffee tables are newspapers full of lies

about an outside world clamouring to get in –

as if anyone would want to come here,

as if anything exists beyond the front door.

..

Jonathan Taylor is an author…

View original post 48 more words

This year all the mirrors have shattered by

I am not a silent poet

for Helen

and the mansion is a labyrinth of reflections,

corridors shards, rooms fragments, faces cubist.

Passageways lead to themselves. Kitchens

teem with the poor chewing cutlery.

In living rooms pianos have been detuned.

The library’s shelves are full of hollow books

that double as ash-trays. Few speak aloud

though refined voices murmur through walls,

locked doors. You can hear the clink of bone

china, shuffling papers, a gavel. In the cellar

there is sobbing, the clanking of chains,

the smell of burning. No-one ventures down

to see what’s there. Somewhere in the maze

is a lost self holding a loved one’s hand

but you’ll never find your way back again.

On coffee tables are newspapers full of lies

about an outside world clamouring to get in –

as if anyone would want to come here,

as if anything exists beyond the front door.

..

Jonathan Taylor is an author…

View original post 48 more words