Poems

Below are some examples of my poems. For more poetry please read my first book: 'Compliance is Futile'.

Ebook: www.smashwords.com/books/view/73333

Paperback: www.createspace.com/3652740

Angel in me

There was an angel inside me today.

I knew it was true when I woke,

when the caffeine rush of my morning coffee

blended with the pulse of its wings.

I don’t know why it happened today,

an otherwise ordinary day.

Maybe the saints remembered me

and cocooned me in their prayers.

I was on fire – a sphere of lightning,

with the angel whispering guidance inside.

There was an angel inside me today.

Disappointed

They had said the preacher was on fire (fire, fire),

the preacher himself had said he was on fire.

Expecting miracles, curious, I just went to listen (listen, listen).

The preacher, God on his side, began to speak,

the very words of God (we prayed).

“I sense a spirit of depression,” he intoned,

and the joy of the Lord is our strength (strength, strength),

“If you’re a Christian, you shouldn’t be depressed”.

So I just nodded then, waiting (waiting, waiting),

“If you’re depressed, you’re doing something wrong.”

I looked down, like Elijah in the desert,

“I’m not going to pray for the depressed!” he shouted.

He wouldn’t stop (stop, stop)

But he was really doing miracles.

Somewhere else.

“A Christian is full of joy. So turn to your neighbour and say how right I am.”

Disappointed (so sad).

I’d like to say that I raised my hand in the air and stood up and cried out:

“But if he is a bad servant, he will begin to brow-beat his fellow servants!”,

but that would have been misquoting the man of sorrows (sorrows, sorrows).

Hardly Harmony

When the conductor turned to face his audience

a sharpened cymbal split the air like a discuss

and sliced his head clean free.

The severed head fell into the lap of the mayoress,

who, until then, had thought she held the best seat.

Her mouth dropped open and she wailed.

There was pandemonium in the orchestra,

the fighting was accelerando,

the audience was agitato,

it was a discord in motion.

The triangle player sat high above them all,

at the back of the hall, unnoticed and unappreciated,

(Though they had always told him he was “needed”,

patting him on the back heartily (and patronisingly, if the truth be told)).

But that night his cheeks were an appalled shade.

The double bass player had strangled the trombonist with a string,

thus upsetting the entire brass department.

The drummer, whose ego was bigger than his drum-kit,

had choked on a trumpet player’s mute.

In this discussion of the percussion,

it is only fair to say that the kettledrum player

had morphed into something wild and scary.

He had worked himself up into a frenzy of frantic clanging.

sending the whole wind section into a flutter,

apart from one gentle flutist who somehow kept her head.

Down in the brass department,

music stands had become swords,

sanity had flown,

turmoil and chaos soaked the hall.

Until, still unnoticed,

the triangle player stood tall,

with his soul cloaked in a dark calm,

he strode down the stairs,

weaving between hurtling chairs,

and blocks of flying glockenspiel.

A self-satisfied cellist stood, overbearingly, in his way,

but the flutist tripped him up.

Allowing the triangle player to run to the conductor’s place,

where he took out the pistol with which he had meant to shoot a violinist.

And fired a single bullet into the ornate ceiling.

Plaster and candelabra shards cascaded down.

And there was complete silence.

Apart from a low moaning from the mayoress.