Poetry: Villanelle, not vilify





VILIFY VILLANELLE

We make an art of common things,
little changed from Yeats' deep darkly inside,
so can there be a common song we sing?

Concoct the coat which provides wicked spin,
hold me to the truth and keep feet in the fire;
we make an art of common things.

The alt of your enemy asks for embracing 
greater minds than ours have given logic,
so can there be a common song we sing?

A bullet-proof union still registering
from Spanish Town to Oldham to wilder High Wycombe.
We make an art of common things.

Mrs. Groce and Mr. Blakelock both in our grieving,
an eye for a high and we all go blind,
so can there be a common song we sing?

Three-fingered salutes in congregating
the collected grievances with mercy as might.
We make an art, an uncommonly rare thing,
so will the song of the commoners be arresting?

Poem: (Besieged)

 
 
 My local post office
 was besieged yesterday.
 I shirked the queue to skirt
 the mask-less, living chins attack.
 


 Every molecule
 might be blame-free in its
 shop-worn simulacra,
                                             (seeped in from a loud one's
 
 

                                             Meeja Stud. homework - aargh)
 Nothing's no bother when
 bothered most the time, but
 I don't fool easy:
 
 
 
 dealers of gruff guff,
 say, or gran's skimped covers
                                              (unfit for emboldened
                                              street wine quaffers even)
 


 two examples of risk.
 I ignore youth's slave talk
 but mentally in bits, 
                                              (and still without a stamp)
 
 
 
 

Poem: Hue and Cry

Dusted flats will be auctioned

off in years when green leaves

are news, not loss.

Ken opulence will bloom

to cheers with skedaddled

brown faces still

fearing the view.

Bridges drawn and tightened

belts, a monophony

of penury-denying

fools. Colour schemes

are always brokered:

oligarchian white

over Trinidadian hue.