Bang to rights

Love died last night and I hadn't a clue
that the smoking gun was held by you.
You covered your tracks with alibi's
and dirty, rotten, low down lies.
Whilst I was serious, you were having fun,
and it was you who held the smoking gun.

The corpse of our romance lies in the gutter,
cut down in its prime by a trigger happy nutter.
You promised that this time it was for real,
and I fell, like a fool, for your crooked deal.
Your cheating ended my winning run,
and it was you who held the smoking gun.

Our love died and was buried yesterday,
when loads of mourners came to pray.
They offered condolences and said its a shame,
but that you sure knew how to play the game.
The juries out and my trials are done,
'cause it was you who held the smoking gun.

Now your wanted poster's all over town,
for the death of a poor unsuspecting clown.
Whose only crime was falling head over heels,
with a cold hearted, scheming woman who deals.
But now I'm much happier just chasing the sun,
and all you have is a smoking gun.

#newpoem

PANdemIC

Touch the glass, feel the pain,
wondering when we’ll meet again.
Keep your distance, don’t come near,
longing to touch despite the fear.
The fear of loss, the pain of separation
mitigating the odds for one more assignation
The retreating steps, the wave of your hand
the ache inside too much to withstand.
What if there’s no more chance to embrace?
Is this the last time I will see your face?
Tear stained and anguished, pressed to the glass,
fear strained and empty please God let it pass!

#newpoem #pandemic

The Poacher

Soft as silk on water,
the moonlight drapes the land,
caressing undulations,
like trickling, shifting sand.

Dips and hollows like punctuation
or notes upon a stave,
stark trees on silvery land,
like words etched on a grave.

Scudding clouds add drama
to the hoot owls sad lament,
and pour their grief on everyone
until their tears are spent.

Murmuring wind on listless leaf
like stifled whispers in church,
Scurrying feet in thicket and copse,
nighttime’s furtive search.

Checking snares, resetting traps,
the poacher stalks the land,
a nightshift Squire of field and byre,
the tools of his trade in hand.

So he tramps the woodlands down
in God’s own general store,
at odds with gamekeepers far and wide,
to keep hunger from his door.


#newpoem #descriptive

Taking the pith

Flaxen haired girls at war with the world,
common room communists all.
A quick demonstration to vilify the nation
then it’s off to the debutantes ball.

#newpoem #irony

TrueloVe

Take me, I’m yours,
heart, soul, the windows, the doors.
The hair on my head,
the garden shed,
the walls, the floors,
the sweat from my pores.
The depth of my being,
my eyes, all seeing,
my legs, my knees, the leather settees,
my tortured soul,
my cute little mole.
Take my troth and quietly plight it,
my smouldering passion and ignite it.
Take the bread from my mouth,
I’ll want no more.
The wood from the trees,
the sea from the shore
and, when all that’s left is one dust mote,
please, take it all but - leave the remote!

#newpoem #Honza Cataract / Stevo Owens Nik Larcombe