‘the enemy’

 ‘the enemy’

we live in the days of ‘the enemy’

or it seems 

ask 

has it not always been so

you might disagree

strongly being a sort of enmity 

if we cannot talk it through

‘my friend’

tiny lot

 tiny lot

when i was tiny

the room was big

now i am big

the room is tiny

what happened 

half way

super supper

 super supper

sunset

the soup is simmering

winter is whimpering 

the summer sun

has been released 

from the roots of soils

toiled in warm days

for warmth today

as welcome as rain in may

remember this

 remember this

i never memorise 

my poems flow forth

molten metal under slag 

to extemporise

would freeze the spout

would allow the slag to shine

when all that is ever needed

is to burn under the branding 

iron willed to their poke ayes out

to sear memories like lava

that consumes all countenance 

this too shall pass

this too shall pass

the anti-trump poems

are being written in their hearts

be sure to be a reader

and not one of the bloody farts

just a moment

just a moment

the poet

gave me a moment

it’s there on the brocade

with all the other moments

that amount to moments

however incomplete 

the memories are 

they are 

nevertheless 

more or less

the sum 

of 

all 

their 

parts

the day they shot the poet

the day they shot the poet

they deported

the last disposition of a poet

that would have told tomorrow

of today of how it died

in all the brutality of suddenly

they have shot tomorrow today

and hearts unrelated to this

cry 

for the poet as a person

who wrote and wrote

but will never do so again

we say never again

again and again they shoot never again

so that they may think they own today

but death has folded the list 

of their wrong doings 

it is lodged in too many hearts to be extirpated

for who will deliver their mail 

or deliver their take-aways

and of course the poem 

full of their just desserts