poems

birdsong

we pan for gold in souls
stripping away the streets
to find songbirds sheltered beneath.

I met a man
with so little to his name
who gave more than he took,
I met a man
without a passport
who helped to heal the world,
I met a man
who slept in a tent
and wrote poetry.

their words formed songs
and their songs formed smiles
and up stood Humanity
and shook its head in defiance,
as if to say:
I shall not be subdued.

and as clothes made way for feathers
and arms made way for wings
they took flight into cold city night
and the air was filled
with the sound of spring.

we pan for gold in souls
stripping away the streets
to find songbirds sheltered beneath.

two - impostor syndrome

the symmetry is always the same
a calm then a rush then nothing,
then a rush and then calm,
like all the lights in the world
have gone out.

composed I prepare to impose myself
upon assembled minds
pressing a world of self-made pressure
into impressionable consciousness
leaving poetic forensics.
it’s a Dark Web drug
that hits you different each time,
dealt at basement open-mics
and dished out to all comers.

it’s the calm and the rush and the nothing;
its’s the rush,
and then it’s the calm
and then it’s the wanting more.