The Will.

My favourite shirt that holds secrets

I’ve yet to share,

the white one, embroidered lace

you cherish,

one thousand and fifty six records

not played since '99,

books owned a lifetime more

collecting dust

and spider’s webs

Yours to keep.

My written words of capitulation

hidden, my image true,

the sudden depths of loneliness

you will search,

music of my mind disguised

free form,

your tears tattooed, her face

freezing in time

lullabies confide

Mine to keep.

My silent rage of yesterday

withdraws to slumber.

© 2009 Michaela James.

The Grasp.

The flicker of the television
siphons the subconscious
weary of tomorrows viewing,
the flower wilts with irony
embossed on my fingers
control, out of reach
inhibitions inhibited,
outside a tapping at my door
an intrusion of humankind.

The gas man needs to screw
me for the bonus of a life
time bought and sold
down the gutter of convenience,
construed from paper talk
tattered and torn, the grasp
lost, inside are my waking hours
vanquished from a loved heart
bereft of compassion, empathy gone.

© 2009 Michaela James.

Exorcised

My chalice trembles at night
As the chink of ice resonates
Around my arid mind
Immersed in babble

Conflict of being
Surrounded by the chimes,
wretched words wake me
from my stumble, my Lord

Reds invade the blue hues
Acid rain cleanses
Partisan warriors
The suits and all who dine

Unrepentant, reaping
Revenge, the hand of God
Echoes of Ezekiel.

© 2009 Michaela James.

Gone.

The devil stared from the sky
Our reflection splayed
Across the oceans,
Laughter strangled
By sorrow’s persistence

The final tick upon us
With the tock long gone.

Mercy held at arms length
For no-one could beggar belief
We were one with insanity,
Smiles felled
By tomorrow’s regret

The silos driven by hate
Silent. Gone.

© 2009 Michaela James.

Long Dead.

Long Dead.

Estranged obsessions collect
Possessions diluted with every breath,
Time eludes insanity
Begging relief,
Wretched nuances accept the end
For what she says
Is God, good yet long dead.

© 2009 Michaela James.

Curtain Call.

I step outside

Sunshine blazes over the bar
raised on a cold winter’s afternoon,
she mocks with the left while the right
teases with the warmth of a boxer
entrenched, tides roll, seize the moment
beneath the willow crying on each corner,
sign of the times as snow falls in spring
wets the appetite of sinners distilled with pain,
delirious at the second coming of an end.

Lighting a cigarette
I watch the lights go out one by one.

The curtain falls, I pray.

© 2009 Michaela James.