Poem for the Day

A poem a day by Arthur J Plant

Aug 19

Dutiful Machine

The washing machine has been made content
humming and grunting without complaint
on the closet dark
wobbling away to it’s dutiful thoughts
deep into it’s masters’ resting hours.


Aug 18

Creeping Clouds

The creeping clouds sidled up silently
a bright day suddenly eclipsed
by a weather warning that wasn’t reported
and will only be recorded, after the fact,
crowing flocks cowed dumb
while fearing cows flock together
the spit landing immediately on head
and suddenly it’s a curfew
sat at the window
looking on a bright blue day
that isn’t yours.


Aug 17

Our Mercenary Kings

The old states have flourished and died
now is the age of mercenary kings
houses and baubles mark the places of power
as they always have when value of thought
is lost, drowned, splintered
against the jagged diamonds and machines
men use to decorate their women,
blood running hot then cold
as the poor and dispossessed
chase the elf-knighted
or else are chased onto streets
that were paved over the old battlefields
and will now have to be paved again
occasionally for a bill of rights
always for the wealth tithed
from tired families thrown over rocks
until their minds or bodies break
which our masters will fix
for another tithe.


Aug 16

Sweater Days

The winds have changed
at night you can hear the trees
begin to groan and shiver
as the leaves begin to yellow
and fall more easily onto the ground,
sweaters are on their way back.

Like old friends from overseas
or relations finally come home
months without their smell or touch
and suddenly you’re right were you were,
albeit perhaps a different place,
six months ago with a sweater.


Aug 15

Cutlery Tides

Knives, forks and spoons
have their own tide
drifting from room to room
between morning and night
anchored in by the meal times,
the gravitational force of hunger
coaxing them up and down
in and out of the drawer where they lie
inert, to the naked eye
but return in six hours
and see what you find.


Aug 14

A Ferguson Bedtime Story

Sixty-five little pigs had a house
and all the little pigs had guns
while a kid walking in Ferguson
did not have a gun (not one)
so the pigs squionked and squealed
and the pigs shot him down.

They shot at the people with tear gas
they shot all the houses in town
they shot the media with rubber
with lights, with noise, with water and lies
so all the people huffed and puffed
and blew the pigs’ house down.

Sixty-five little piggies were sent home
a whole bunch of cops took their place
and all the Ferguson people
slept soundly in their beds
for one night, at least
the pigs were finally gone.


Aug 13

Break

Twigs break underfoot in the forest
breaking the eerie silence
left by a broken mind
and a heart unbroken
having failed to break out
of a back-braking predicament,
breaking stride on a stony road
a fall not broken soon enough
to stop a bruise breaking out,
the new dawn finally breaking
to stumble towards, broken
but finally ready for the breakthrough.


Aug 12

Getting Ready To Go Out

I ain’t ready for the world yet,
pushing the walls of house out
just a few feet more
elongating the windows a few more inches
sticking my fingers in the cracks to feel about
in the fresh air, on the hot ground,
I can walk out the door anytime
but I can’t just walk out the door anytime I want,
gotta be ready, gotta be cool, gotta smooth myself up,
get this messy head in gear
and this heart under control,
a quick peek out at the people
and I’m back in again,
I ain’t ready yet
but I’m getting there.


Aug 11

The Fasting Day

Today was a fasting day
without a religion to recommend it,
dry winds wiping tears off the TV screen
bad news ebbing and flowing
through streets of headaches and coffee
in the soft sunlight that floats in the eye
tired, stressed, depressed,
from what it’s read on the screens.


Aug 10

Creaks

The creaking of a house
is a comforting sound
footsteps, chat and whispers
travel well through walls
and midnight halls,
a reverb of radio
and whistling blinds
by the wind that travels
solicits sleep and familiarity
of space inhabited
by an organic species.


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