Roadkill English Poems

The Day of the Lion 10/11/24 We stand facing the massive granite lion Fronting the city's war memorial In the sharp air seagulls soar The lion is couchant, his fierce jaws semi-open, As if swallowing a roar The flag bearers under his paws Stand ramrod straight, Their poppies red as gore Each man has a chestful of medals Each ribbon stands witness to war The city clock has been stopped. The Flooers o the Forest echoes mournfully The flags are dipped Between and around us, The invisible dead slip incognito Those who never lived to see their prime This is their day to be remembered This is their sliver of time After the silence, the ghastly spectre of war recedes The regimental honours are raised The town resumes normality The dead with a chilly sigh Retreat back into history Roadkill Half a wing flaps on the tarmac Ripped from the body that lies 10 metres away Once it was part of a whole a sky diver a cloud wheeler a puddle sipper a dung dropper Once it was a creamy white bird a scare shopper a food stalker a roof percher a street gangster Once it was a sharp throated squawk Half a wing flaps on the tarmac Tyre treads flatten it With herringbone patterns Tree It started as a sapling, one foot tall A baby, you could snap it with your fingers Each year it stretched another yard to heaven Drank the black milk of night, supped the warm food of sun Slowly it rose up, silent to the stars Daily it bounced to the breezes' buoyant rhythm It lived in a city garden, paid no rent The human neighbours found its presence irksome There were complaints, it blocked one family's view Another claimed its roots dug up the pavement A third man threatened to sue if it made him trip The tree, having no say in where it stood, made no response In thirty years, it grew roof high Then came the woodsman with climbing ropes and saw He stormed up its sides, like a nimble squirrel Slicing the tree in sections from the crown A day and a half the landmark pine was lopped Branch by branch, its fragrant needles dropping Reduced to woodchips, all that grace and elegance Fragrant perch of any passing bird All that remained was a stump, blackened like charcoal An empty space where a living thing had been Larry Butler- Sukhema Teacher-researcher-publisher-mentor Everything he does is left of center Born in Illinois, in Glasgow settled Always calm…never seen him nettled He cooks, he dances, he goes wild swimming He laughs at death, check Living our Dying He's a Tai Chi master, a meditator He's the Scottish Lapidus main convener He teaches renga and therapeutic writing A Dhanakosa tutor his workshops are exciting Join his playspace, read Autumn Voices His therapeutic writing helps folk make good choices Move on up, to the Maggie Center Art on prescription, a well words presenter Survivor's Poetry, hospice, hospital, retreat Learn from Sukhema…join in. Pull up a seat On Waking A dream turns upside down Thoughts scramble to stand to attention Reality must be resumed A lighthouse floats past a pier The town house resumes its position The market cross stops whirling Through clouds of sleep How will today roll out? Like a flipped coin Dropped in the wishing well at King's A crab cripples out from a sea rock Lobsters snap in their creels Dawn breaks red as a wound, A conspiracy of gulls patrol the streets The warm cocoon of bed Gives way to the unknown moments That can turn on a pin head Normal service returns with some interference The Rough Sleeper We who take running water cold and hot for granted Who live in our warm houses with our flush toilets With our phones, our TVs, our carpets Our pets, our fixtures and fittings Were disagreeably affrighted When a rough sleeper decided to sleep roughly On the steps of our theatre where some of us worked. Peel away the feminist, Women are timid at heart. This rough sleeper was not performing a part He was the real deal The first witness said he was dressed in black Like Sweeney Todd. The rumour raced round the foyer Like galloping consumption At the next telling, the rough sleeper Was a rampant paedophile, a Jimmy Saville monster Soon, he had morphed into a homicidal maniac A theatre goer offered to swear on a stack of bibles She'd seen a machete, gleaming out of his jacket Her husband who confronted him Said that the rough speaker grunted like a yeti Like a Neanderthal. Having no point of reference to compare him with The rough sleeper probably came from Saturn. Aberdeen Beach The tide rushes the sand, skimming over The slippery surface, wiping it clean Retreating, returning under oyster skies Salty, luscious, it creeps to swallow the shore Down the monstrous mawe of the grim North Sea The wind is a fish knife slicing the day apart A yappy terrier snaps at a wave Shakes its sides in a shock of spray Mother of pearl clouds roll by Awash with a catch of gulls