Poems
Julian Wigley
Power tie
Grey men in grey suits
with matching ties
sign papers
that snuff
lives.
(c) 2007
The child
I sit outside, blinded
looking back in
with eyes full of rain
my bones dry and brittle
waiting for a sign.
I cradle the child
bound by tears
waiting inside
stilled by phantom fears
In the light
ravens gather, eying my armour
and soldier ants map my veins.
At night
I lie, worn, on a bed of torn feathers
curled up in my head.
Grooves worn deep from unrelenting doubts.
I grasp at familiar thoughts
where hounds sniff my failings
and winged sharks circle my wake.
I fall asleep
shriveled and bent,
the child stilled,
yet again.
(c) J Wigley 25 August 2007 (Draft 1)
Hope
Let's hope
with the artist and the warrior melded
the new world's child is born
And, once torn from the mother's breast
will shape a new dawn.
(c) J Wigley 2007
Mind's eye
June 2007
Each morning
my inner eye
probes
beneath forgotten flaps and folds
touching
dulled
used edges, and scraping old scabs
each morning.
So it is, and always was
still waters shake loose vile storms
that crash and subside,
captured in a momentary glance
by my mind's eye
each morning
as I
wait.
Still.
(c) J Wigley 2007
Suez 1949?
The man standing on the ship's polished deck
wore a red fez.
He was lifted from the sea
to play his games
with fluffy yellow chickens
hidden beneath upturned silver cups.
He rolls out a mat and squats
Smiles at curious passengers gathering.
He plays against any stranger's eye, any coin will do
Quick of hand he secretes his chickens.
Two out of three he gestures back.
To polite applause he gathers his winnings
and drops to his tendered boat.
Its sail unfurls
and he slowly drifts away.
On the bank, behind sandbags,“Tommy” soldiers straddle their guns
and smile back.
(c) J Wigley Draft 1. 25 August 2007
Soldiers march
Comrades march
front to back
chest to chest
rough cloth chafing
with every stride
everyman a lion
with hope burning
inside.
(c) July 2007
Tears
Through the mist of dawn
A childs’s tear
An ocean roars.
(c) 2005
Through the mist
A childs’s tear
Oceans roar.
(c) 2007
War
Ripe plums
Blood red
Men stare blankly at the moon
(c) 2005
Ripe plums
Blood red stains
Men stare blankly
(c) 2007Soldiers step
Stumbling footloose
Rancid smoke
A rooster crows
(c) 2005
Feet of clay
A clear skypushes down
upon and from within.
His eyes forced open.
Tumbling thoughts washing
grey
over worn bones and feet of clay
dismantling edifices and brittle constructions
all converging
Focussing for one moment, in a ring of solar flame,
scorching
treasured parchment
held up to the light,
in the briefest hope
that its message
will broker some respite
from this frown
that veils his eyes
hounding joy from any thought of life.
His clear sky pushes down
until there is no longer light.
(c) J Wigley Draft_1 on 16 July 2007
The fallen
Slight winds
Strip the blossom
And rivers darken
(c) 2005
Good men
Good men
What is this humourless joke
played out
as each of us
take
chances
in life's uneven toss
and watch
estranged
as life
plows
and churns
each man under ground
culling with secret magic, disease or cruel serendipity
leaving
the living
weeping
with faded memories;
when Good men
die young?
(c) July 2007 Draft 2
Topor
Stiff pen
Upon paper
Growling a line
Scratched clear
Soiled paper
Made in topor.
(c) 2007
Wisdom
Self-delusion bleeds reality.
And builds dreams.
(c) 2007.
Thoughts on stillness.
Us whitebellies are always on the move,ready to say or do something.
Fill the silences with our business
or someone else’s.
Is this the stuff of our culture?
(c) 2006.
The journalist
The journalist
Lying
in a Baghdad street
mobile phone
in bloodied hand
the shot journalist calls
into its bloodied slot
“good-by.... my dearest, good-by ”
shot for reasons unclear to others
done by unseen
Cowards
for ideas forged by strangers
and muddied by the blood of his brothers
and sisters.
He lies dead
in this Baghdad street
his bravery was his, alone
each day that was.
“I lived for truth,” he re-affirms, as he looks down
at his crumpled body
with bloodied face
mobile phone in bloodied hand
leaving his mother
alone
in her Baghdad home
numb
to the disconnect tone
of this dead son's
mobile phone.
(c) J Wigley revision 13 Nov 2007
Alternative title: Baghdad street 13 July 2007
The journalist
Lying
in a Baghdad street
mobile phone
in bloodied hand
the shot journalist calls into its bloodied slot, “good-by.... my dearest, good-by. ”
shot for reasons unclear
to others
done by unseen
Cowards
for ideas forged by strangers
and muddied by the blood of his brothers
and sisters.
He lies dead
in this Baghdad street
his bravery was his, alone
each day
that was.
“I lived for truth,” he re-affirms, as he looks down
at his crumpled body
with bloodied face
mobile phone in bloodied hand
leaving his mother
alone
in her Baghdad home
numb
to the disconnect tone
of this dead son's
mobile phone.
(c) J Wigley 19 July 2007
Alternative title: Baghdad street 13 July 2007