Poetry

We are delighted to offer our readers

five more poems from

Harry Mills

NIGHT

And, black thin, ring-less fingers

creep from somewhere deep

one by one, across the bedroom floorboards

threatening the frightened light

to fight a death for this last night

slowly, deeper

cowering as a blind dog, shivering in dead embers

and, your half face, lit by the lamp, cowardly lowers

as a penitent confessor in an ebony box

perfumed with anointment and absolution

that creep from the priest’s black missal

GLADYS & JIMMY

She drank alone

from a plastic beaker that made no sound in the dark

how many, she once counted, crying

just a mumble, a jumbled number

born amongst the Salford rubble

pissing in puddles of prejudice and poverty

courted by Jimmy, a Glaswegian rat catcher, the late love of her life

with oiled hair, parted like a Biblical sea

she washed in the kitchen sink

and ironed her best pink bra, the colour of icing sugar

holding sweating hands, perfumed in disguise

stumbling in the dark over the long forgotten foreplay of youth

AMERICA

Silently sitting, clumsily in a lacquered wicker chair

Outside the once fashionable restaurant, waiting for her

Waiting for the morning’s daubing colour, jousting for street space

Smeared by sun, fighting shade along the waiting white walls

Where market sellers gather, like grey smudges

Below the gaudy faces of enamel fascias, smiling at lazy gazes

‘She’s gone’

Her acid tongue spits sweet revenge, between pouting painted lips

Ice cold, like a sudden frost killing a frail summer

‘Gone? .. gone where?’

Her vampire blood-red varnished nails, preened for the clean kill

Outstretched vultures talons, tantalisingly, creeping closer

Along the starched Irish-linen white tablecloth, suddenly stopping

Like a pulse

‘America’

MOVING ON

Bad seas roll and roar

drowning the night’s screams

buried in a laughing green bottle

tossed aside, no longer full or of use

to spend fate’s eternity

waiting to gently roll, once more

in the warm shallows

ebbing, wishing

to be released from this glass prison

of eyes, scouring for new hands

to caress, to open, set free

into a new day’s sunlight

THE HAND OF MY ANGEL

Breath, as thin as paper shrivelled skin,

as old decaying apples, at rest under a forgotten tree,

for drunken wasps and time to sweetly devour.

For now is my hour to step into the night, beyond my sunken eyes,

to behold the angel, that is my soul,

and see my own face, dissolve as clouds that pass,

and change their smile

Harry Mills

Born 1944 in North Manchester, England.. failed every exam in the world, went to Art School (with Tony Prince), ran ad agencies as creative director or owner…divorced, kids, divorced, kids… divorced four times… lived in China, now in Philippines where I drink too much and write too little.

Harry’s vast array of poetic wisdom can be found at his Facebook page or via his blog.