Read Time:2 Minute, 46 Second
The Poet
Pencils scrape and carve
to create art.
Pens leave lifelines as they bleed.
Keys work to obscure light and play tricks of illusion,
shape the mood and lay before you a representation
in the shadow of another's imagination.
Thoughts are projected onto a paper canvass
or a screen
or mirror
hoping others will recognise and reflect
like the tattoo that is watched as it blurs and fades over time.
Presenting an image of one's former self
within, its identity and aspirations.
Open to criticism, we display vivid colours and opinions, insights and observations.
Words scream and letters whisper.
The discourse is played out in both secret and public, though few would read,
listen or care to understand.
Voices speak in the background to form and shape subliminal messages
using a language that circulates and resonates while increasing in volume
until it can no longer be ignored or contained.
Read me
hear me
see me.
All is a door that is open.
Oh pens,
pens will beckon
you in.
The Reign
A coat was laid upon the shoulders
potential threats firmly at bay
arms that held the precious mould are
protecting those who chose to pray
a bridge to cross a sea of secrets
as towers leaned towards their fate
cross the heart and aim to keep it
and swallow what will fill the space
a canopy arched over wisdom
confidence came in its wake
another bound to seek a kingdom
let tragedy come and dictate
supported by the staunch and loyal
rallied a champion whose colours bled
a sacrifice made for the soil
the consequence cost him his head
Janice
Her arms don't work as well as yours
though their movement works just fine
her legs are still and stationary
one too many bridges climbed
her mood spurred with frustration
and what she cannot say
designs above her station
with words she cannot play
held in her capabilities
no conversional hold
despite her disabilities
at just twenty years old
her eyes will dart and light the room
her smile is warm and true
a lack of understanding here
processing dared presume
reliant on your charity
to quantify her life
a mother she may never be
she still deserves her rights
though at times she's motionless
her presence deeply felt
pushing upon a point to prove
on to her mental health.
Growing Pains
Wrapped up with stolen secrets
infused last summer's wine
the wound back clock
that ran a mock
when we still had more than time
Everything was warm and golden
at least to the naked eye
now the limelight fails to beckon
looking back
on long goodbyes
The hues we knew indifferent
that strike had struck a chord
when pens drew insufficient
then the ink's
its own reward
A sword smith's sharp intention
to scratch and slice the page
with twisted caps
like old road maps
that grow on us with age
Fashion lost to functionality
to practice and master fate
head nods become formality
and patience
worth its weight
Twilight heralds the autumn
the process of the wheel
copious amounts
with meagre doubts
deepened on how we feel
The age old question motioned
though shunned and hid from sight
replies to fit emotions
open up
the last
good night.
Ant Mac has been an author and poet for over thirty years. He writes for both adults and children. He recently published his first collection of poetry titled, When Nature Calls: Sea, Air and Land. He has also been published in several poetry magazines and anthologies, including The Coffee People, The Pavement magazine, Eclipse Lit and Open Door. As an author, he has written two books for children: The Tale of Little Beak and Toby and Ben.
