Three Fabulous Poems by Jonathan Butcher

 

A Pinch of Money

 

A brazen image on that wooden 

double door, the relentless banging 

that erupts as soon as I turn the first page.

The city is still and gentle now without 

it's occupants, the walls now starved of echoes.

 

This space here is still a landmark 

without the usual bustle, the jagged

roofs and cranes litter what passes 

for a skyline, almost tempting yet 

more unnecessary design without

consent.

 

The afternoon strips back, places

it's palms in invisible laps, our time 

no longer filled with bottles and filters,

our hands no longer idle, only desperate

for free time, so they can reminisce without

consequence.

 

It's just enough to stifle our words, 

allow us an olive branch, burned 

and twisted like forest fire timber,

so we never ask for scraps; heaven

forbid their trickle-down should ever

comply to gravity. 

 

 

 

The Corner

 

The same stones that we used 

to crack windows and bus-stops,

now settle under the aged soles

of our feet. The same over shadowed

corner where we choked on cheap

cigarettes; regurgitated wine and false

attitudes.

 

The same orange brick walls 

stand within that half demolished

church house, that you claimed

was haunted but was only possessed

by ourselves; like a crowded cell,

it's enclosing walls a constant taunt.

 

Our reasons for being here eventually

dissolved, a depository that gradually

diluted the curbs of this street, it's limbs

now weakened and unable to defend

against our freedom, that now threatens

it's already fragile security. 

 

The council meetings failed to remove

us from that ground on which we etched

our names, we planted those rancid seeds

that sprouted evergreens that now remain

each year, the mantle handed down,

no need for us to ever return. 

 

 

 

On the Benches

 

The benches creak as the honourable

gentleman scrapes the powders 

from his pockets, his lies so prolonged, 

they can only be recorded via legend.

 

Those ancient papers that adorn that centerpiece, 

much smaller in reality than through

the eyes of screens, are stubbornly torn,

like discarded laws amongst shredded headlines.

 

The backhanded jeers wash out 

any chance of retaliation, via the streets

or these four walls, his sentences slowly fragmented 

like unfinished jigsaws. 

 

The last, sly chuckle chuckle emits from

that twisted grin, an out-pouring of disguised 

disgust for decency, as once again

he staggers, kissing Her Majesty's hand.

Jonathan Butcher has been writing poetry for around twelve years. He has had work appear in various print and online publications including: The Morning Star, Popshot, The Rye Whiskey Review, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys and others. His third chapbook 'Corroded Gardens' was published by Fixator Press.