Glossy Mounds

Roman ruins-Norse-conquest-castles-writingasitcomes

Where I live, we enjoy an eclectic mix.  It is an exciting blend of old and new, the ancient and ultra modern.  Walking through these ruins is normal; a day to day thing, which can easily bring thoughts to mind.

The history of Newcastle upon Tyne dates back almost 2,000 years, during which it has been controlled by the Romans, the Angles and the Norsemen amongst others. Originally known by its Roman name Pons Aelius, the name “Newcastle” has been used since the Norman conquest of England.

Glossy mounds undulate with a twink
of moonlight; our bleary eyes are drawn,
like it was a belly dancer,
whilst we are drunk on curves made of thin grass.

Interwoven in these slim nibs  –
dressing this long ago moat –
is the pungent whiff of Chinese supper
waiting downwind.

We pass through a maze of stepping stones
of old versus new build preservation –
thrilling as it is in historic glee –
it is incongruous.

Tall colleges stand,
proudly boastful of our burgeoning youth
and multi coloured accommodation, made of

clustered hives to radial cities, bungalow grids,
to streets in the sky.

‘I think it was a moat.
Now sullen, these sunken dips,
lend a sudden, glassy drop to a once watery bow.’

Fingers sink into refried chicken and potato wedges.

Sometimes, the erotic curves in those verdant hills
would creep out the bejesus in us;
those stealth foundations with concave battle scars
ramble through grass covered time –
just to please us.

‘Yes, it was a moat –
fit to protect sand and black scorched stone,
built to defend us –
slot eyed, fiery trebuchet eyes,
are now abandoned.
Pink Aubrieta grows from gaps in the stonework.
Its purple haze in springtime
replaces tough times and taught men,
but fails to conquer in the harsh daylight.

What happened here?
Why are you still here?
You’re surrounded!’

Surrounded by shopping precincts
and takeaways,
grungy shops, sales and annoying students
posing – unaware of history –
unaware of the iron cast helmets
photo bombing happily
beside toothy, selfie smiles,

never to be seen,
but still willing to bear the weight
just
to ghost your mirror images

mingling with us as we wander the city,
inebriated at tawdry o’clock; black cloud skies
illuminate us well enough, we Siamese twins
in couplet courtships
with evening’s drunken revelry
and wayward pranksters hurling crap
through the city after 11 o’clock
when the pumpkin crashes

collapsing into stale, regurgitated beer swilling in alleyways
where vomit wreaks.  And we are blissfully
unaware of the cobwebs that filter our
streetlights and in them, the spectres ogling
and smelling our high-street,
plastic, tubs of fried rice.

Parapets at the top of a wall,
that we regularly puke in
have regularly spaced squared openings
for shooting through;

we feel pain as mid morning approaches,
perhaps from the invisible arrows
of expert archers
darting randomly,
rarely missing our eyes,
always piercing our hearts – these stalwart wretches are still
fending off the barbarians –
early intruders to these
olde battlements –

weary warriors
always watching the river Tyne to the seas,
cloistered in heavy garb
as they fire and fight all night long,
trying to hold onto their ground
and secure the city walls…

but only until we, the true offenders,
go home and go to bed.

FEASTS OF GRIEF

Dorna has some unique pieces on her blog and it would be great if you could go see.

madasahatter572

Wretched, a remnant of before
you left me
What do I care for your name?
Why shout it?
Should I bother with tears?
Or as many as you said my name
to equal the number
Why should I give
a damn now about yours?
You were dying
when you were lying
Now you are dead.

I am here living,
or at the very least standing –
breathing low before
your marred headstone,
watching nature at her best;
her nocturnal creatures draw close
towards your grave.

In my mind they feast
but sour memories and grief
make them unmentionable fiends –
that wanted to make a macabre feast
of your bloated body,
and I let them – brittle bones now
rattle in the dust,
still all I can see is anger.
I hate you right now.
You are dead
where all the dead are at long last
at peace.
Laughing to…

View original post 147 more words

Proof

Night-whiskey-projector5933

Hold that smile,
hold the pose
in these weird days
that hold our breath the most:
awkward posture, selfish guises,
bulging eyes strung out on technology.
With our free hand
we raise a glass to future’s past
toasting
the ghosts that couldn’t
make it.

Downed in one
tenuous gulp
makes cheers last longer,
to smooth over doubts and fears
as froth dribbles down the chins
and glasses
set to rest on crisp
white linen’s
cracked sneer –
all aimed at the ghosts
who fake it.

Toasts drown
out the background noise
of irony
as we drink to our health;
it’s part of the game –
we drink to drown our sorrows.
Intoxication is such
that we need it so much.
In limbo we stand bereft
and shaking;
all acceptable,
and very appealing
since life can be unbearable
with little consolation
in healing.
We drink by ourselves
and ogle ourselves
in full fascination
of ourselves –
the future ghosts
that won’t make it.

Cast adrift among
the bubbles –
we are remote and detached
in its liquid
arms to brew animosity
and anonymity –
cast adrift only a short time
before we collide
and we burst; spewed out
but still trapped inside,
we become the toasts
oblivious to the ghosts
who can’t take it

 

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