Tag Archives: SJ Lavery

April 14th

It’s dead out here.
There’s more life
in a petrol station.
The folks of Formosa,
with spindly legs,
have staggered home.
It was all about
the angle of the sun.
An undue commotion,
caused in some
town square bar.
Careering out of
nowhere another bruiser
synchronises with a
cold wind a blowing.
A black hole.
Event horizon.
Seen from space.


The Fire

Near the fire,
you sit.
Watching the flames.
Recalling all that’s
been consumed.
Rendered into smoke.
Terminating in the
night sky.
Watch it long enough,
and you will see
into the future.
Before the oxygen
is gone.
And you are ready,
to be darkness,
once again.


Scott Walker

Up early,
dreams pulling
at my bedclothes.
A song slumbered,
but never woke.
Breakfast beckoned –
black coffee and toast.
With an accompaniment
of world news.
Scott Walker has gone.
To the big sleep.
To the Seventh Seal.
To Montague Terrace in Blue.


#WorldPoetryDay

For World Poetry Day.
A poem.
Just three lines long.


Hope

On bikes flowing freely
down Royal College Street.
St Pancras Old Church.
Flashing forwards.
A frequent passing.
Once there were arches:
The American Car Wash.
A carpenter selling
small furniture.
All buried beneath
high speed rail.
But Hope can be found
on Midland Road.
Spelt out large,
nearly fifty feet high.
A sibling to those
at Gospel Oak,
York Way and
Kentish Town Road.
Graffiti soaring.
spreading balm
to all the abandoned.
The souls who travel
by day and by night.


Unrhymed

In an altogether day,
like yesterday.
Quite profound.
An ultrasound away.
Trying for a rhyme.
Please reserve that
couplet for the dead,
and the undead.
Licking the corners
of some uncommon
type of ground.
Kind would be a
better word.
But sometimes we
need a substitute.
Something that floats
gently on the wind.
A thing of lightness.
Unencumbered
by contrivance.
Steady and unrhymed.


Breakup

She’s had a lot
of painful breakups.
And I’m just here
the unwelcome guest.
Telling nothing new.
Nobody’s fighting.
Nobody knows
what to say.
I remember the
taxi ride down
Park Lane.
The song playing
on the radio.
It’s so over now,
was the message.
A portal to a
trance state.
Opening that box
from under the stairs.
The things that
were hers.
And the rain.
I hear it outside.
The constant flow.
The things we don’t
want to know.