Poem for the Day

A poem a day by Arthur J Plant

Posts tagged poetry

Aug 27

Melancholic Floods

Swaddle me in a cloud of warm words,
summer has finished and the rains have come
to drown my mind in melancholic floods
that sweep further every year,
desperate and naked
clinging to the compliments I hoard.

Aug 25

Infectious Indignation

This has become a house of coughs and splutters
indignation settling as a chest infection
while the virus courses online and on the screen
our pasty-faced leaders gobbing furiously over each other,
bill boards and shop fronts wheezing in a climate
that encourages the epidemic like wind on a bushfire,
summer has ended but the national winter is getting worse,
only the shadow of the vote can tell us
when we can all venture out into the sun again.

Aug 24

Installations & Adjustments

I’m sick of this face.
I need something new.
Not a younger model
or a sleeker one,
hot necessarily an expensive upgrade.
Maybe something sleeker
with a little va-va-voom.
Maybe one with a few extra lines
or a little extra weight.
I could just swap out the cheeks
adjust the brows
raise or lower the hairline
but I’m on a budget.
I’ll just find someone
to install a smile for me.

Aug 23

Pharmacy Stock

It’s usually for someone very young or very old
packets embossed with the necessary information
for somebody who cares (and can read)
stacked in many dozens on shelves
decorated in a white to calm and reassure,
little actions against inconvenience or despair
prepared, stamped and sealed
wanting the label to match
to an animate soul in physical distress
waiting at home
while somebody waits anxiously to collect.

Aug 22

A Dead Jaguar

You might it had grown there
between the crops and brambles
as green as anything else
in England’s pleasant land,
mostly unmolested
by disinterested fauna
still on it’s haunches
but dead on the spot,
a sleek predator body
motionless, being deftly swallowed
by the late summer grasses
that sprout with the rain,
now just a ghost of a Jaguar remains
with no good road
to take it away.

Aug 21

A Less Obedient Creature

Some dogs should learn not to be so obedient,
the higher mammals they have aligned themselves to
are not as high as they have been led to think
or as wise as they are required to be
nor deserve to be so high and mighty all the time.

Dogs are not meant to kept indoors all day
or chastised every time they run off to play
or to be kept from socialising among the grasses
because their greetings are found to be distasteful
by creatures who kill for money.

Dogs have never looked like their owners.
A dog is not something that is owned.
It might be lived with and provided for
and will live with and provide to the same value
but we are both just animals sharing an Earth,
one day both might realise that.

Aug 20

Cats in the Pad

The cat’s have taken over my sister’s pad
(and it’s not even Paris)
and the Jazz isn’t Jazz but a Samba
a lazy hairy samba
flooding the floor and the stairs and the chairs
eyes and shag drifting on the air
which swirls in l’odeur of milk-fed mammals
homing together as mammals always have done
in a narrow cave
beside someone else’s fire
(though the inclusion of trombones
is more recent, zoologists believe).

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.

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