Four Poems by Gordon Scapens

 

CONSCIENCE



The bundle of rags

filling the doorway

of the closed-down shop

reveals human movement.



I’m aware of misery

trying to park in my life.

I resist the intrusion,

leave for anywhere else.



I should be aware

adversity detects any hint

of innate gullibility.

Unease follows me home.



It lies in the corner

with other wretchedness,

aware of its worth,

and stares me out.



I tread carefully

avoiding confrontation.

I shall learn to live with it,

explain I’m powerless..



Now it’s been acknowledged

it will grow the face

of a moral compass

pointing to guilt.



Even next door’s dog

won’t come to me now.




HAVE AND HAVE NOTS



He accepts his bonus,

equal to his annual salary,

as though he’s earned it,

ignoring the constraints of

the present financial climate.

Some of it will pay for

his wife’s cosmetic operation,

some will be earmarked for

extensions to his mansion.



Far away in another country,

he carries a thin, crying child

with sickness for a whole day

to ramshackle health post,

and there are no guarantees.

If he gets her back home

to the overcrowded shack

he’ll always be watching

for that same predatory shadow

to cross another child.



Left unsaid by the rich

is the lottery of birth

with unequal burdens.



Somewhere there’s a conscience

that raises two fingers

to the rest of the world.




COFFIN DANCER



Inside a man’s head

is a skilful footballer

minus a team;



a singer of soulful songs

without evocative words;



a poet for the world

with exhausted reasons;



a stand-up comic

who’s lost the audiences;



a great lover wondering

where the charm went;



a racing driver

running out of nerve,



a leader of men

misplacing the rules;



a would-be millionaire

running out of decisions.



What really hurts is

he’s the last man standing,

a coffin dancer

for all the men

he might have been.




SILENT COMMUNICATION



The night was so quiet

carrying our unshed tears

and the walls squeezed silence

tight against my ears,

sounding like a warning

on unintentional hurt.



You lay alongside me

hypnotizing the ceiling

into finding a solution,

not knowing yourself,

wondering if you understood

the root of our differences.



I wanted a crutch

of explanatory words

to give stupidity a face

we could both recognize,

maybe even understand,

to hold you like an answer.



The night was so quiet

that it seemed to me

I could hear my own thoughts,

loud enough to be interpreted.

Suddenly you turned to me

and said “Yes”.

Gordon Scapens - is widely published over many years in numerous magazines, journals, anthologies and competitions, most recently First Prize in the Brian Nisbet poetry award. He lives in Preston in the United Kingdom.