Monday, November 24, 2014

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems

A Strange Friend

The strange friend was there
When needed least
The showdown was cast.
The foundry of fury
Not beholden
But not not forgotten
Released against
The adrenaline lined belly
Where truth and differences
Somehow never meet.
Just as they say; just different
A pact to agree something written
In future in blood in weak words.

To know the living are there
By a state of redness against blackness
People starved and deformed – reformed
A sense that electric a state provides
An unwritten or knowable tomorrow.
The heat beats on like a devil in play
Consuming, resuming its pleasure in pain
The playing with the stranger who unknown
Is meeting and greeting and is grooming fate
The private passion devoid of the others leaves alone
A strange place with a strange friend the meeting was…
A state gain of my pleasure and also my loss


In The Night

An Anticipation that can be caressed
Dark long haired gypsy women running
            With tongues as long as rivers
 And as cruel as currents that draw

Children bawl that makes up the night
Some hidden hierarchy of mood
            Casting ever long shadows
The grass lies low and cold

After the after – the final light goes
The town under a sheet retreats
            The night gives light
To those who play across the wider stage

The 52, cigarettes and a non- compliance of tomorrow
The hidden spaces as moles burrow around
            The clock seems tick backwards
In this marriage of dark and dark

The men in town dream of the gypsy women
Never knowing as their women dream
            Of tomorrows tomorrow
Their warmth is unknown by all

Still night rests over the lands apathy
Like a big bolshie sister does as she pleases
            Time is forced out of the scene
The hour’s decreases and decrease

The new day is penned drafted and planned
The night life slips on to its days act or hides
            The gypsy women’s wits sharpen
Against the first light of the sun   


The breeze

Where does that passing breeze end?
Like you
            the fleeting butterfly.
As I, the staid aged oak – unthinkable, unmovable.
…waiting, held by a different pendulum
            a lost optimism an oh! So staid view
                        from my window pane:
The desk remains full and chaotic -
Life, like us and the wastrel mindset
            As is our garden without order.
            The breeze goes by
We look               we wait.
                                    The butterfly wisps past, and is gone        
            The moment…past…

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