Poo Corner – Issue 12

CHAIR TODAY GONE TOMORROW

Today the dead’s chair
Will no longer sit sedately where
It quietly supported
For a growing weighted age
And so many books it read every page
And when its body was tired and unwell
It would soothe and comfort
And vow ne’er to tell
And now, when arms and seat are threadbare
No-one, not even the children want to sit there
So what’s to be done, an auction or a sale
But what if it should unreservedly fail
To incite any interest in its fate
Due to its advanced dilapidated state
(And it would cost too much to upholster and it has lost entirely one old bolster)
The wood’s still good but the fabric is torn
It once was great but now forlorn
Who could love a chair
That just sits there
When its life, its love is buried somewhere
In a leafy corner of forgetfulness
And besides, after all, even the chair wooden care less.
**********************
DJINN AND THE BONG

I wonder what life would be
For a Djinn trapped inside a bong
Full of magic, full of mirth
Stuck with mere reality for what it’s worth
Bouncing, scraping, hoping it won’t be long
Before someone somewhere
Searches out that sacred book
On the highest shelf in a secluded library to take a good look
They might just dream of spells and potions
That could see them crossing wild, wide oceans
From the comfort of their armchair
And all this time the Djinn is fretting
Because his freedom depends on a cretin
So it looks like the Djinn will stay therein
Though at least he’ll trip and soar if only
He keeps on breathing and doesn’t feel lonely.
************************
Wind Times

Too many door closers
Afraid, as though there’s a question blowing in the wind
And that times might really change.
Talking animatedly about the choice of colours
For their hair-shirts by Yves O’Saintagnes.
A life too short to think, too long to live,
Riding waves goodbye to one voice
Except their ownership of a complicit share.
**********************

Memory Jog

Smoothing down your wrapping-paper
Idle distraction to one engaged
In words not of such present
Yet eyes mist over with lust’s vapour
Your thoughtful gift of beauty waged
War on loves, lost in sad lament

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