Category: Poetry

(For Emily, my Muse)

1

And as I sensed it,
Now I have seen it.
The dark corpsely mutterings,
Drawing shrouds of darkness to
Drown and smother your heart.

But when it is over,
You return, weakened, yet
Trying to salvage the wreck that is your soul,
And rekindle the light that once shone in your eye.

2

And as I sensed it,
Now I have seen it.
The people in your city of souls,
Suffering at the hands of those
Who destroy with their indifference.

But when the indifferent are gone,
Somehow you muster the power,
To search for meaning,
In this tapestry of the obscene.

3

But now that I have sensed it,
And you have learned to fear less.
Bound by your trust, you call me through the mist,
And I will help to ensure that,

The light in your eyes might shine once again,
A soft scented breeze rises up to the west,
Erasing the cries of the yet walking dead,
And reshaping the patterns of tapestried threads.

4

And then I will sense it,
Then I will see it.
Power returning, your heart will yearn
For places unknown and new challenges burning.

And I will withdraw with a sad, smiling face,
To a shadowy corner, a fading place.
And all I will ask for a trophy or prize,
Is your life full of happiness and that light in your eyes.

(1st, 2nd October 2023)

(For Emily, my Muse)

When they first meet Goldie,
Most people don’t think much.
She’s just a cute stuffed childish toy,
And when you call, won’t budge.

But there are some among us,
I’m very sure we’re few.
Who see beyond her stuck still paws,
And take a different view.

We don’t believe it’s Goldie’s work,
To run or bark or swim.
Instead her job’s to show us how,
To see what lies within.

Our hardened hearts, our frozen souls,
Are warmed by Goldie’s glance.
Her glinting eyes light up the sky,
And give us all the chance.

To let her power flow through our veins,
And feel its strength reduce our pains.
Until at last, the child remains,
As wiser fools look on in vain.

And they might feel superior,
Convinced that their exterior,
Reflects a smart interior,
But we will know, yes, we will know.

Yes, we will know.

That when we first met Goldie,
It was a special day.
And we should thank the stars on high,
For sending her our way.

(17.09.23)

(For Emily, my Muse)

Collie on a grapefruit,
Held back his ears,
Stretched up just as high he could,
And wiped away his tears.

Collie on a grapefruit’s
Friend had gone away.
She’d promised, promised, promised,
That she’d be there every day.

But Collie’s friend deceived him,
She was a wicked bitch.
And Collie from his noble height,
Cried out in howling pitch.

“Never lie to friends you claim,
To love, and don’t deceive.
Especially not young puppy dogs,
Whose tender hearts believe.

Every word you tell them,
And every gesture seen,
Must always be from honest thoughts,
To puppies . . . don’t be mean!”

(16.09.23)

It’s not that.
Your reflection.
That’s not the problem.

It’s the other.
Unseen images lurking,
Discursive, masked expectations.

Unwritten rules.
Stylistic features,
Demanding mute compliance.

They are,
Comparators, exemplars,
Resentful of acclaim.

Smashing mirrors,
Can only reflect badly
On society.

Copyright © Sam Mckeon 2015

A child,
In maximum security.
Parents for jailers, knowing no better.
One cell to next,
Established routine, cell to bus,
Bus to cell, cell to cell.
Incarcerated tradition,
Best kept that way.
Yet child,
Offence-less,
Neither aider, abetter nor perpetrator,
Crime-less captive.
Habits of others key, cramping,
Blocking, preventing, freedom sapping.
Perverting nature’s cause.

But child,
Sprite spirit, free,
Flirting danger’s delicious diversions.
Makes off, mind first,
Rest follows and actions potential.
Rainbows in dreams with
Scented delusions, combine in creation,
Orgies of sensual perplexity.
Dragons chaste virgins’ petals attack,
Deflowering traditions, fates restructuring,
Monoliths crumbling,
New captives creating.

© Sam McKeon 2015

To the lovely girl,
Who passed my desk.
In the tight blue jeans,
And the purple vest.
The one whose hair shone,
Like a sunrise in June.
I wish you’d turned round,
But you’d gone all too soon.

To that cute ruby redhead,
With her smart pinstripe suits.
Wears her hair in a bob,
And sports black high-heel boots.
As she waits for the bus,
On a cold Autumn day.
If only she’d look,
Or she’d turn round my way.

There was once a girl,
Who noticed me smile.
I think it was Tesco,
And we talked for a while.
She seemed really nice,
Kind of chatty, yet dreamy,
Then up rang her boyfriend,
He wanted linguini.

I would like the chance,
To go out with a lady.
Why not treat her to dinner?
Or the cinema? And maybe
We could take in a show.
I would buy her iced cream.
Or go really, real-posh,
Order drinks between scenes.

See, it’s not all that easy,
When you’re cast the wrong role.
One body for appearance,
But another for the soul.
My chin lacks stubble,
My bum’s really sagged.
And the people down the hallway,
Call me “Janet, that old slag”.

Copyright © Sam McKeon 2015

There was a time I used to stand and stare,
As all your pressed and preachy songs were sung.
But now I will no longer idly wear,
The coward’s clothes for I’m no longer young.

Give me the sniper’s sight, a brutal aim,
And show the path to targets I may seek.
My deadly weapon’s here to kill, not maim,
For meeting death’s no work for mortals weak.

Deceit is cropped and trimmed by honest work,
False witness may not gain the day this time.
Its bearers here my toils shall rend inert,
As truth ensures the victory only mine.

Yet all such labors Pyrrhic risks provoke,
To trap and down the fall of honest folk.

© Sam McKeon 2015

I

Old country platform, the last service gone.
Timetabled songbirds chirping on song, as they
Check tired walkways for crumbled remains,
Of yesterday’s sandwiches, yesterday’s trains.

Brightly tabarded, young workers refresh,
Baskets of quainties, dry hung in coarse mesh.
Dripping their oranges, snow whites and yellows.
Her favorite colour, his thought, as the meadow

Erupting in crows yelling shrieks of war cries,
The bird scarer’s victims reach up for the sky.
Hurling their curses on enemies unseen,
Then floating back earthward, to feed on the green.

Creak oily swings protest gates sliding shut,
With a “thunk-ker-ker-thunk” when their centers abut.
And a breeze from the marsh, boils up to a squall,
Proving the forecasters right after all.

The last time she left him, the weather was thus,
A mist quiet morning brought afternoon fuss.
On the fast train to Hastings then changing for Rye,
Where she never arrived, 30 years come July.

Back before steamers were dieseled away,
No mobiles, no phones nor texts of dismay.
All he received was a telegraphed message,
“Railway bombed. Wife dead in wreckage”.

II

They wouldn’t permit him to see her remains,
“Her burns were extensive”, the doctors explained.
And strong as his urge to prize open the cask,
The box remained closed as the sealers had asked.

That time spent in grieving was painfully slow,
A freight train all stop-start and signals hung low.
But brightening his dawn in the new age electric,
Came overhead power lines and measurements metric.

Scaling the heights of his shaft of despair,
Emerging at last from that cavernous lair.
A chance encounter on platform eight,
When she’d missed her taxi and he too was late.

The short hour from London soon passed in bright talk,
They’d much more in common than either had thought.
Since both of their spouses were lost in the fight,
Each held the other’s pain all through that night.

Hers gone three years since missing in France,
His had been taken by stray bombs of chance.
And growing together, pressed further adrift,
From smarting horizons gave spirits a lift.

So now every evening, at twenty past four,
He strolls down the platform to wait by her door.
While she fills out papers, sets the alarm,
And they walk to their cottage, each arm in arm.

© Sam McKeon 2015

gentle tendering strokes
silently glide,
back,
neck,
brow,
smoothing hair,
brushing cheeks,
chin,
circling each
glint dreamy eye

feathered touch
tracing cheek
marking shoulder
back again
bolder, bolder,
across her chest
between her legs
rolling eyes
warm scented breath
my beautiful mare

© Sam McKeon 2015

let me down, I will forgive,
shut me down, I will reboot,
put me down, I will retort,
send me down, I will appeal,
knock me down, I will rise again,
hold me down, I will resist,
burn me down, I will Phoenix aloft.

But . . .

lay me down, and at your side
I will filter all your nightmares.
lay me down, and in my arms
your love will hear its echo.
lay me down, our breath will merge,
to blended sweet perfume.
lay me down, with this I promise,
an eternity lain with you.

© Sam McKeon 2015