#poems # poetry
Ten yards from the church.
What a waste of a hearse.
One last taxi ride
For someone who had died.
A cold empty church.
First visited at birth.
Echoes a lost song.
From people all long gone.
Come back to my house
For ham and Famous Grouse.
A toast from the priest.
He would have been so pleased.
The Pub and the Church.
The result of any search.
But here in this house.
He loved me and God and Famous Grouse.
By inch, by foot, by yard, by mile.
As it was taken, we reconcile
Once field now mud, once brick now sand.
Rejoice, reclaim all of our land.
Minute by minute, hour by hour.
Remove the weeds, restore the flower.
Blowing smoke up your arse, in the Autumnal glow
Will feed unpaid fires, as the weather, drops below.
Nature judges incompetence, in inches of snow.
Laying softly on the roads, while the icy winds blow.
When the lights go out, and the wheels stop turning
People take to the streets, fires start burning
The bins stay full, the rats start emerging.
Forget the past, then what’s, the point in learning.
She looked like a younger Shania Twain.
Even shared the same christian name.
Said “I do” and that was her truth.
Photos of tattoos and a missing tooth.
He looked like an old David Ike.
The kind of man a mother wouldn’t like.
Said “I do” and that was his truth
Spoke of alien abductions in his youth.
Pastel dressed Yetis. Threw handfuls of confetti.
At the confused bride and groom.
Her stomach showed, an unexpected load.
Expect an arrival very soon.
Through the estate, past the fence. A big blue gate, see your friends.
Nervy creatures, shiny shoes. Trainee teachers, holiday blues.
Class bell rings, get in line. Grab your things. Five to nine.
Assembly pairs, through the doors. Rows of chairs, sit on the floor.
Up you stand, bow your head. Join your hands, prayers are said.
Through corridors, into your class. Cluttered walls, English and Maths.
Learn to spell, simple sums. Jack and Jill fell, Fingers and thumbs,
Time for lunch, chicken and chips. Noisy children, greasy lips.
School yard games, pick your teams. Learn the names, graze your knees.
Back to class, tie your laces. Questions asked, innocent faces.
Draw your house, get a star. Show the teacher. Wash your jar.
Time to go, parents wait. Pictures to show. Outside the gate.
Mischievous grins, little waves. So begins, the best of days.
The only businesses booming.
They were running out of wood.
Measuring horizontally
Where vertical people once stood
The only businesses booming.
They were running out of silk.
For the inside of wooden overcoats.
Made from chipboard oak or teak.
The only businesses booming
They were running out of nails.
The building trade was dying
The country coming off the rails.
The last of the crop has been harvested.
I shone brightly and was not targeted.
Left to radiate and slowly grow.
The worlds most prettiest Scarecrow.
I dance with the wind under moon and sun.
It whispers tales of troubles to come.
Still I smile as the trains come and go.
Look at me, The most handsome scarecrow.
Dog walkers joggers, all turn and stare.
They wonder what am I doing there.
They question but surely must know.
I am the worlds most beautiful scarecrow.
Lying on my back, inhaling the pack.
Watching two V’s merge into one.
They’re flying South, over the river mouth.
They were here and now they are gone.
I could leave by train. Away from this pain.
Without any thought of resistance.
Watch home town lights, disappear in the night.
Like strangers into the distance.
Racing red brick walls. Echoes rise and they fall.
A one way ticket with no return.
The air must be sweeter, the grass much greener.
Watching all my the bridges burn.
Daydreaming the fear. Stuck in this atmosphere.
Tied to the plough and the clan.
Seasons slowly change while I quickly age.
Modifying my master plan.
I wandered along, windswept and lonely.
My wellingtons covered in shite and e.coli.
Toward a meeting of Sandpiper and Snipe.
Dipping in the drippings from an overflow pipe.
Unable to admire their beautiful plumage.
Covered in a sauce from the fast flowing sewage.
I lie in a ball, blood marks on the wall, waiting for the sound.
Of sirens and activity, that surely will save me, and keep me out of the ground.
Three hours later, feeling no greater. Another 999.
You’re still in the queue, we’re doing all we can do, in this race against time.
“I fell down the stairs and nobody cares. i’m cold and broken in two”.
Such a kind voice, says there’s no choice but to wait, in vain, i do.
A commotion outside, too late but they tried. A deathly stare inquest.
Eyes gently shut, no pulse or output. My name, too far, down the list.
Anthony Cooney Visit @TnGTheBand on twitter.