Jonathan Butcher- Three Poems

Home

This town, I have given everything and received

nothing, other than the recycled apologies not

worth the tongues they rolled out from.

During the bus journey through your borders,

a laugh from the couple behind evokes again 

that fear, the fear that after a while just became

a comfort, like a blanket secretly laced with poison.

The walls are now buffed of our markings, my

ankles still splintered from the nightly chases 

that made our evenings passable, and made 

the pulling of our roots that more possible. 

I gave all to these walls and roads, as my back 

still remains turned in right direction, as I stand 

beneath the blossom encrusted branches, that

paint shadows like broken fingers, and let the 

others pass once more, their smiles as fixed as

ever. 

Practice Room

Another morning waking on that

dust filled two seater, the orange 

walls offering no real imprint on our 

dilated eyes, as the sun beams

that force themselves free through

the single glazed windows finally 

gatecrash our morning. 

And we are welcomed into this

tight skinned hour, that allows 

the memories of last nights 

misdemeanours slide back into

our heads like an over dripping

tap, a blast of iced air then sets

our breath into clouds, helping us

gain much needed clarity.

Last nights attempts at time travel

and immortality, lay strewn in broken

ashtrays and pissed in bottles, the guitar 

strings now hanging like torn out hair, on 

which no tune could ever be plucked. 

We then bid any farewells at the exit,

as those rusted gates that look so

enticing at 1.00am, lose their beckoning

persuasion at this hour, yet no reasoning

seems to register. 

We then turn over, each of us taking

our own sweet time, our hands now 

bound by empty pockets, and we then

promise ourselves once more, that in 

ten years time, this will all remain the

same. 

The Valley's Cradle

Drifting past the green, peeling railings 

that frame the old school house, caked 

in decades old soot that was rejected by 

the local's lungs, I search for comfort in the 

cracked pavements and wilted leaves.

And this road, that now trades in trinkets,

that only shine through the eyes of the

the ones on loan here, allows me to draw

breath, as slow as the pace of each person

here, their faces hung like moth eaten capes.

The sun light bends here, not of it's own accord,

but to the will that runs blindly through these 

bricks and gutters, and passes through the 

cemetery; the very spine of this road, that 

coughs up names far too noble for these times. 

The last few drinks are settled, that we sink with 

the most joy here, and at that last stop, the old

bar's wooden tables beckon, that before we leave, 

we watch slowly turn to dust. 

Jonathan Butcher has been writing poetry for around

five years. He has had work appear in various publications

including: Underground Voices, The Rusty Nail, Elbow Room

Dead Beats, Gutter Eloquence, Black-Listed Magazine, The

Weekenders, Electric Windmill Press ,and others. His forth coming

chapbook 'Concrete Cradle' is to be published by Fire Hazard Press.