Daily Archives: September 2, 2017

COunting Dead Rabbits by Rachel Burns

I am not a silent poet

I sit on a bench, surrounded by moorland

and watch the children fly their new toy plane

it is motorized with a propeller, and has red and white wings.

The bench has a plaque dedicated to a son killed in Iraq.

The farmer is burning the heather over the far side

and I can taste smoke like someone else’s grief.

The plane takes off, droning through the air,

nose dives

             bombs

     crashes

               into the heather.

The children pick it up, try again.

The sun is high in the sky and I can see for miles.

The farmhouse looks tiny below, as do pine trees

planted in neat triangles sheltering the cattle from the cold.

The plane takes off, droning through the air,

nose dives

bombs

crashes

into the heather.

A pair of peewits and dive,

View original post 172 more words

Down and out in Durham by Rachel Burns

I am not a silent poet

Late in the evening Alfie huddles in a shop doorway

beneath bright Christmas lights

Nearing thirty, he looks punch old.

His battered radio tuned to Metro Night Owls.

A wave of desperate voices, a distraction

from the freezing cold. Ida from Stockton remembers

people darning holes in their socks. Jim from Byker

is pissed off. He’s being sanctioned.

Vicky from Shields is looking for a Food Bank

to feed her three bairns. Alfie finds words

strangely comforting, as if back inside the army dorm

before he was kicked out, cos his head

is filled with raging nightmares and battle scars

before his mates were sent home in body bags.

By his side, a collection tin and a bottle of Bull

people walk by, he tries to catch their eye, areet darlin, smile.

He wraps himself in an old sleeping bag from the Salvo.

By the morning he will have…

View original post 13 more words

An Alien in London by Rachel Burns

I am not a silent poet

Walk past a sea of sleeping bags, blues and greens

see the man swimming beneath, lost in drugged sleep

take a sleeping bag, it’s yours. Drag it through littered

streets. Smile be happy. This is London. The Big City.

 

Smoke weed, roach hanging from your mouth

greet fellow travellers, lost souls

on the long and dusty road. Let the tears flow.

Smile be happy. This is London. The Big City.

 

In the West End, walk through Burlington Arcade

stop to have a shoe shine, shoes blackened

for a charge, a very large charge. Pay with your soul.

This is London. The Big City. The Valley of Plenty.

 

No money? Don’t worry. On the outskirts

of King’s Cross, come sleep rough, become one of us.

Join us. Get your feet blackened for free.

This is London. The Big City. The Valley of Death.

..

Rachel Burns is a…

View original post 29 more words

Well Cleaned Working Shoes by Mendes Biondo

I am not a silent poet

wake up my buddy it’s monday
today the world spins again
and you will stand waiting
for a job and a place struggling

as everyday

set up the house
clean the garden

sit and write another curriculum vitae
send the whole thing to deaf
factories
presses

supermarkets
working places without a particular name

start praying your mean god to receive

a good answer
or at least
an

answer

people told you so many times
that work is a way to be free
arbeit macht frei
that work is always abroad
mamma mia
that you need to go away
au revoir mes amis

it’s the same old dirty monday lie
because your working shoes
are clean as a new pair
yet

and good mama girls
and good papa boys
goodfellas
godfathers
recommended rotten brains
idiots of every kind
will overtake your working shoes

but

now breath and forgot all struggles
monday…

View original post 14 more words

Cormelian by Sally Long

I am not a silent poet

He lashes me with his words.
He lashes me with his fists.
He lashes me with his feet.

I lug his granite boulders,
wrap my apron round them,
their heaviness oppresses me,
but there is nowhere to escape.

He lashes me with his words.
He lashes me with his fists.
He lashes me with his feet.

I wear the clothes he tells me,
keep the children quiet,
his behaviour depresses me,
but there is nowhere to escape.

He lashes me with his words.
He lashes me with his fists.
He lashes me with his feet.

He sleeps so I take my chance,
I pick up lighter greenstone,
quickly hide it in my apron,
but then my husband wakes.

He lashes me with his words.
He lashes me with his fists.
He lashes me with his feet.

He sleeps so I take my chance,
I pack a bag, call a cab,

View original post 85 more words