A spiteful sceptical poem without punctuation lest punctuation is just another cause

 

 

imagine the spread of forests that could still stand

imagine the branches that may have waved

the leaves that could have unfurled

in a wind that wandered without a hurry

to get wherever it is the wind goes

 

and the lead left

in the ground unground

unsharpened unspoken

 

if we let loose the reins of pretence

that protests change the world

we have created that horse has bolted

runs now of its own accord

little heeds our words songs or signs

 

instead truth to tell we need to surrender

our power our money or desire

stop the purchase across counters

littered with the blood of women

the bones of slaves the ears

teeth and smiles of native children

to make shirts and shoes

lest catwalks grow sad and unused

 

after all this time

the rich have more wealth

the powerful more power

regardless of all the words

that coddle

and let us pretend anything has changed

Planned obsolescence:

 

I

From the beginning it is planned

that end

the futility to pretend

the refrigerator will last into the next decade

the television will beam pictures out

until the sun eventually switches off

the act of drying hair with the hairdryer

brings the little puff of smoke ever closer.

 

Intelligent design by factories

who know the side to butter their bread

is not the long-lasting strength of year

into new year,

rather they harbour the bright and shiny exit

once the designated warranty is buried

under dust and receipts in the drawer

beside a sadly degrading computer.

 

II

Father is dead now

these past thirty years

my brothers and I have grey beards,

there is the slightest shake in the fingers

of my sister’s hand that once held mine

as she walked me across the street,

mother forgets I called yesterday

and  I have grown

past that little boy of six with children

she cannot remember

and a wife she forgets each phone call

that she has met.

 

III

old Nelson is gone

his heart beat until the pain

was too much to bear

his blind eyes through his ears

followed my movements about the house

he only rose

to find the food bowl and sometimes

if luck chose my side

to ask to piss outside.

 

I miss the sound of his feet

plucking sound down the corridor

the feel of his small head

resting on my lap;

 

I have a picture of him

painted by my friend, it shocks me to think

Kevin has been gone 5 years.