Seven Poems by Mike Everley

 

Pondering

Sitting on a granite chair

circling an ancient sun

in a far corner

of a hostile universe

wondering why

humanity wastes time

and energy

on hate.

Arguing about race

and culture,

neither real

just social constructs,

rather than watching

the dying sun

fall from the sky

blazing red and gold.

Trapped within borders

of narrow culture

failing to perceive

the common thread

twisting through cells.

The beauty of

humanity's music

drowned out by tribal drums.

We erect flags

mark out arbitrary

boundaries

becoming each others' other

in the looking glass

of distorted minds.

Meanwhile, earth spins

across the vast heavens.

Lema Sabachthani

 

It is a cold wind that rises.

          Lema Sabachthani.

Let us huddle close in homage

as treeless earth cracks to dust.

Lazarus, nothing but gnawed bone,

pads his shadow towards town.

Lifting his skull towards the moon.

 

For it is a cold, cloak-like wind.

          Lema Sabachthani.

Snouting along dusty streets,

alleys and hidden retreats,

nudging between dry stonewalls.

Hear it rattle doors and tread

with grating paws on slate.

 

It is a chill wind that rises.

          Lema Sabachthani.

Sucking marrow from our bones.

Bodmin Moor

 

Bracken, black burned,

a lone straggling

saffron gorse bush

splashes colour

onto bleakness.

 

A small croft

perched beneath

a peak of rock

huddles a distant

copse of conifers.

 

Strangers here,

migrants trapped

in thin soil,

clutched together

in desperation.

 

Cars, A30 bound,

draw you back

with engine sounds

from timelessness

towards the modern day.

But

 

It's such a small word

of only three letters

yet it says so much

about what matters.

 

I'm not a racist, but...

I like immigrants, but...

I don't like fascist, but...

 

Such a small conjunction

used without compunction

yet what follows after

is no laughing matter.

Clouds

 

The clouds are strange today.

Looking up they spread

wispy strands to weave

forests of lost trees

amid swirling white mist.

 

At their stationary centre,

a woman's face

with wide panoptic eyes,

her mouth teasing

trailing tendrils

into eerie shapes.

 

Perhaps she is Nephele,

goddess of the clouds?

 

Or, perhaps,

she is just in my head?

Umbrellas

 

Cargo shorts do not suit old men,

beanpole legs sprout from gaps too wide

to encompass their shrunken skin.

Creases form where flesh fails to fill

canvas sides that flap and go wild.

Old umbrellas, forlorn we stand,

with empty pockets and lost dreams.

Waves

 

Poseidon is angry this morning.

Smashing me into submission

with his seventh wave.

 

Undertow pulls. Sand offers no grip.

I fall in the water and cannot rise

betrayed by old knees.

 

My granddaughter’s hand

reaches towards me

and helps me stand.

 

A golden sun sinks from its zenith

turning orange above the sea,

a curl of cloud black across its face.

 

A blood orange ball falling

silently beneath the waves

as I sit upon the warm beach.

 

 

Mike Everley has had fiction and poetry published in the Anglo Welsh Review, Cambrensis, New Welsh Review, Poetry Wales, Outposts, Cardiff Poet, Undiscovered Poet, Entheoscope, Poetry News (Poetry Society), Lothlorien Online Poetry Journal, 5-7-5 Haiku Online Journal, 101 Words, Cranked Anvil, Voice Club and Acumen. He also has poetry accepted for next year's issues of Red Poets and The Seventh Quarry. He has had articles published in general, specialist, family history and literary magazines and journals including: New Statesman, My Weekly, Popular Crafts, Family Tree, Family History, Who Do You Think You Are and Ancestors. He was a member of both the NUJ and the Society of Authors before retirement.

Amazon Author's Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/mikeeverley

Swansea and District Writer's Circle: https://swanseawriters.co.uk/

Website: https://www.everley.link