Three Poems by Jonathan Butcher

 

The Landscape They Requested

Hollow rocks with unnatural holes
frame this pathway. A dampness
hangs, which seems pleasant
at first to those who crave such
sights, but who then backtrack,
once they remain choked 
and soaking in a flood of their
own making. 

The stepping stones embedded 
in this river, the distance between 
each one too vast for safety, leaving
those craving direction stranded,
until we throw a lifeline, which 
they reject, despite the weight
of consequence, under which
their spines never seem to break. 

And the hillsides with hidden slough,
trap them ankle deep, they seem
happy in the sheer discontentment;
four-leaf clovers and rusted horse
shoes entangled in their jaws
and broken teeth, again content
to never consider a better option,
as this would of course, be far too
much of a risk.

 

 

Same Routine

 

When waste replaces flags,
spun from fabrics too decomposed
to fly happily in broken winds,
perched on rooftops of still
wet concrete, that will eventually
dry, ever marked by their withered
handprints.

When the garbled excuses narrate 
the reason they are flown at half-mast,
indicative of their predecessors, 
who brushed their hair, straightened
their ties, and stapled their tongues 
to their lips.

Each landmark stained 
by the same symbols a deflection
from any distraction away from
that single repeated message,
which spreads and burns up 
this field of dried, yellow fauna,
only extinguished once our blood
turns to water.

 

 

Gradual Pace

The days off now seem
a little bloated, but without
the indulgence or indolence,
just the action of applying 
time correctly, no backs
are broken at this pace.

Any drinks remain ice
cold in glasses, the escalators
in galleries always seem to work,
never a trip or a broken fall
in these cafes; no upturned
pavements soiled with a hint 
of freshly spilt blood.

Tranquil maybe an exaggeration,  
but each hour now unfolds 
without the drag of barbwire 
over reluctant bones, the splinters 
of which remain an irritant 
for days to come and are pulled
from wounds that never seem to heal.

Twilight closes our evenings
rather than dawn, a stretch 
of sleep which remains undisturbed,
the walls and doors remain 
at a comfortable distance;
enforced enclosure now a thing
of the past, these open doors
now a welcome gift.

 

Jonathan Butcher has had poems appear in various print and online publications such as  The Morning Star, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys, Unlikely Stories Mark V, The Abyss, and others. His fourth chapbook, Turpentine, was published by Alien Buddha Press.

He is also the editor of online poetry journal Fixator Press.