Poetry

Seb Barsoumian photo

 

By

Stephen Philip Druce

 

 

God Save Our Gracious Streets

 

 

Tattooed necks,

tatty boots, staggering

wrecks in filthy tracksuits,

 

the discarded old, a

swearing child, shuffle

in the cold through

rubbish piled,

 

moaning queues, the

jobless bitter, doggy do’s –

the traffic shitter,

 

pavement cyclists in

chewing gum flavour,

litter strewn – anti-social

behaviour,

 

apathy – misery, rain-

drenched souls, no space

or parking place, road works

and pot holes,

 

subjugated – grateful, we

love our palace queen, her

subjects can aspire to the

council house dream,

 

as the downtrodden march

to the food bank in their

fleets, I sing to myself

 

“god save our gracious streets.”

 

 

 

 

It’s The Way – It’s Not The Thing

 

 

It’s not about

the mechanism – it’s

all in the balance.

 

It’s not on any c.v. or

profile – style,

 

it’s the graceful in

the prize, not

the g-force in

the rise, but

the way it flies,

 

it’s the timing – the

poise – a sublime touch,

 

it’s the rhyming and

the rhythm, but

not too much,

 

it’s not how incisive but

how it all glides – the

shuffle – the ballet,

the ebb and flow tides,

 

it’s not about

the winning or

the loudest bird to sing,

 

it’s the cadence not

the power, it’s the way –

it’s not the thing.

 

 

 

 

Gold

 

 

“If I were a colour,

what would it be?”

she said frivolously.

 

In retrospect I didn’t

detect the invitation to

flatter,

 

I hadn’t considered my

hasty reply that surely

wouldn’t matter.

 

But my answer unwittingly

sealed our fate – and why

I can’t extrapolate, but

I said “red” – “oh no”

she said deflated – her

olive green compliment not

reciprocated.

 

I should have said

“gold” – a colour so

precious like this

girl I should have

told,

 

but I’d been too

impulsive and red

was said – the colour that

left her cold.

 

 

 

 

A Journey Blessed

 

 

May the courage of

your footsteps tread

upon the light of

wisdom that guides

you through the

darkness on your

chosen path.

 

And as you walk

the good earth,

may you have the

strength to carry all

your hopes and

expectations, until

the day they are

fulfilled.

 

 

 

 

Just Like Them

 

 

They wished for a baby boy:

 

tall,

handsome,

clever,

precocious,

athletic,

polite,

virtuous,

noble,

clean-living,

successful,

triumphant, but

the boy turned out

to be just like them.

 

Damn!

 

Damn?

 

Damn fools.

Who else goes

into the mix?

 

 

 

 

I Give My Heart

 

 

Desert diamonds clamour

in ocean sky

ants ablaze,

 

lustrous to blacken tricks

enamour – riddles feast

my carcass to gaze,

 

cacophony skulls of

orchestras beckon my

sweet guitar to swallow –

 

my pulse a trusted backbeat,

for the skeletons to follow,

 

with floating arms and

lucky palms I climb

the sky ship sea,

 

with ribbons and scars

I give to the stars – my heart –

they’ll never hurt me.

 

 

 

 

A Ghost Reflection

 

 

A ghostly

figure lay

upon the

surface of

the lake that

day, for I

could see

through its

reflection down

to the lake

floor.

 

Through the

crystal mirrors

that wobbled to

the lake bed sticks

and cobbles as

I looked out

from the

shore.

 

Through ripples

cracked, waterlines

split and

stacked – a

transparent soul was

he,

 

but a spirit from

the dead had

not come

back because

the ghost

reflection was

me.

 

 

 

 

The Big Light

 

 

She made a

candlelit dinner but

without thinking he

put the big

light on so he

could see what

he was eating

so she left

him.

 

Keeping her

happy was like

walking a tightrope

for him,

 

and the night he

put the big

light on he fell

screaming.

 

He hit the

ground, unlike the

falling leaf he

caught when

he placed it in

her palm and asked

her to make

a wish.

 

He always forgave

her, like a bird

forgives another for

stealing

its bread.

 

And as he flew

alongside her, he

wondered how

passing clouds could

find their way

home.

 

He would talk

about how the sun

and the rain could

make pretty rainbows –

 

the colours of

the flowers on

the icy hill he

climbed to pick

for her.

 

He was a romantic

man, but without

thinking he put the

big light on so

he could see what

he was eating – so

she left him.

 

Finished her

meal,

 

blew out

the candles and

 

left him.

 

 

 

 

 

Stephen Philip Druce

Stephen Philip Druce is a poet from Shrewsbury in the U.K. He has previous publications with The Playerist, Cake, Muse Literary Journal, Ink Sweat And Tears, The Inconsequential, The Taj Mahal Review and Spokes.