Poem for the Day

A poem a day by Arthur J Plant

Sep 14

Busy Weather

I’ve been waving to the clouds -
“Come in” I say. “Come in.
Bring the sun and the rain with you
it’s time for a party
and I don’t mind a little mess”
and they wave back but keep going
they are all very very busy
so my house stays clean.


Sep 13

Bright Lit Heads

We carry so much for the sake “communicating” with each other
and we use it to plug all the holes of our mind
lights to drown out the auras we might share with one another
speakers and tones stopping out conversations dead
until we are left as blazing shadows opposite the dinner table
florescent avatars distracting lives we might ignore
but are always living and sharing with each other
even when we don’t notice, heads down in bright light.


Sep 12

The Play

The boy was played
and the money was gone
all that was left
was for the cops to play out
and the loser to laugh along after.


Sep 11

To-Dos

The week is marked only
by the tides of post-its and reminders
lining the walls of a room
shifting with the buds
of incomplete works
and jobs never done
though I always mean to,
occasionally I can tear a fistful
and clear a little oasis
of old beige to stare into
until I am devoured by it
and some new to-dos
blossom over it again.


Sep 10

The Moneymen came

The moneymen came
they saw what the people had built
and what the people had built was good
it was strong, it was just
and above all it was profitable
but it was not profitable enough,
sellers of many colours with bright wares
putting smiles on faces for fair exchange
of gold and favours -
gold that was not going on the balance sheets
of the moneymen’s ignoble kings
and favours that could not be consistently valued
on a market basis.

The moneymen upended the tables
a few crying for what they did
but on they went none the less,
all goods that were not their were buried
and those who protested were gagged
and the people were forced to stay
but the smiles were all sent away
and what was built was sectioned and cornered
the colours arranged to fit the strict hoardings
so their kings could make sense of it
on balance sheets in lonely towers
having never known the pleasure of favours
and when their sin was done
the moneymen left their guards
and carried on.


Sep 9

Bad Job

The work is bad,
isolated minds farmed in
for plastic perches
to help someone else
spiral deeper into an abyss
of capitalistic bureaucratic social disease
because god forbid we give each other
any other option
or anything at all,
the docks are closed
the factories have been moved
and now we skulk about
like rats in ties
from one patch of sickly sweet residue
to the next
left behind by the man
holding the can.


Sep 8

No Knowing Yet

The axeman has come
though for what we do not know
yet,
tides beginning to run in strange directions
around the shores of an island
preparing to up-end itself
while it’s masters twiddle their thumbs
swearing at each other
not sleeping soundly
having not slept soundly before
but while creasing over other matters,
the proles have begun to move
in uncertain waves
as the clock starts to tick down
to something
at some point
here
but not yet.


Sep 7

Downward Faces

I can hear women here
but their vision eludes me,
happy conversation leaking out the walls
and from under every door I pass by
between home, work and the grocery store,
friendships and romance and job stress
and the sort of lesbianism that involves
picking a hoover and organising taxes.
I look but somehow I am blind,
I am the unwilling master of my own world
dour men with dark eyes and downward faces
dragging along between home, work and the grocery store.


Sep 6

A Period Of Cultivation

I stay up late to watch my thoughts cultivate
like the rhubarb that advances most dramatically
when the light is cast only intermittently on it’s broad leaf
creaking upward in the dark in a private shelter
until the stems are fat and rich
to be cut, bundled, shipped and served
in somebody else’s dish
while I sit or stand or lay still
waiting for new thoughts
to spring from the ground.


Sep 5

Legs On The Job

It’s my legs
the job wants my legs
dragging them furiously into the floor
so each night I have to wrestle them back
just to make it home to bed,
plug them in and leave them on charge
and I’m good again
but again I’m not good
because this job is going to take my legs.


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