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Poetic Incidents
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Black Kite
The night a blind guide, A drunk God sits, Sinking in the inking, A Frankenstein bird, A black kite. Never felt a string. Up to the blank, To the lights in the deep, To the magnet in the stars, A trash bag toy, A black kite. Never left a thing. A celluloid flare, When the plot drops the mask, The end spinning off in the light in the hole, A smudge in the slick, A black kite. Never left a doubt. Boredom in the beer, In the punk in the stumble, In the giggle in the sigh at a string in the sky, An onyx in the tar, A black kite. Never made a sound. The night a blind guide, A drunk God spits, As the stars take their place in the lights on the ground, A feather in the sludge, A black kite. Never felt a string. _______ ©James McCabe Crutch in the Gutter
Crutch in the gutter, The sky was blue, Ditched — fixed in carbon ice, Train station just in view, A specter in the salty glow, Ten degrees, And naked trees, Oblivion has its chores to do, The sky was blue. No Happy Meal — vacuous and cheap, A hitch-hiker fast asleep, Nothing come, For something dumb — without a thumb, Did it limp away — refuse to obey, Or dash to the light? The last fight — or flight, The prop that propped, An ingrate or madman, Before like a wing it fluttered, Or a stone it dropped, An evil twin tossed from a car, Or struck by truck, How far, The other, Who lost his tongue, Or found his shoe? The sky was blue. Crutch in the gutter, Feigning meaning — or mutiny, Old friend that met his end, Wretched curse — or worse, A walking shadow, Icicle fang, Stalactite hang, Something snapped, Its master — trapped, Reviled — exiled, Or snubbed by its hapless slave, Accidental flight, Or madness — rage, A bloody coup, The sky was blue. The grip once warm — just worn, Grayed in oily tones, Subtle as a stumble, Over shifting lines and stones, Between resolution and revolution, And where's the other, Crutch in the gutter? Without a leg to stand on, Abandoned, To be tire crushed, In slush, Or toyed and smashed by wild teens, And boredom sport, Life is short, Footsteps few, The sky was blue. Crutch in the gutter, Where everything but nightmares follow, Where's the other? Did it run to the train, Or fall on the lawn, Exhausted — gone, Prophetic or pathetic — hollow, Locked in ice — the price, For what? Crutch in the gutter, Useless clue, Behind the futile glass — I lied, Shadows stalking by my side, I don't belong to you, There's nothing broken, And the sky is blue. _______ ©James McCabe Pom Poms of War
Like a ghost in the mist, Like a vision in the fire, Is the secret of the fists, In the pom-pom choir, The brushstroke blur, Is the spike in the punch, While the dogs on the chains, Play pretend for their lunch, And the spike in the punch, Is the spike in the heart, So the novocaine creeps, Till guns are the cheers, Are the clouds in the sleep, In the deep of the tear, Of the eye of the keep. The pom-poms whisper, Like a siren on the bluff, Just a glint in the eye, And a fist in the fluff, And the punch in the gut, Is the splinter of a doubt, Is the hand of a friend, Is the mannequin hero, In the cardboard town, Where the cameras obey, Till the blood is confetti, And the shoes in the street, Are the scribes in the Court, Are the scars of the cure, Of the dark in the deep. And the pom-poms roar. And the pom-poms roar. _______ ©James McCabe |
©2017 James McCabe / Lord Jim Music.