Last Orders
He’s faded through the hullabaloo,
mutters more beer, more fun – his epitaph.
The tattooed knuckles no longer fist
a threat. My father’s head resting on
the table, mouthing a Johnny Cash song
that mists his glass, but empties mine.
Scribe
The ceiling’s low, he either stoops or cracks
his head. It moulds a humbleness of stature.
He pens the script by habit in black ink,
the magic of writing will clot his doubt.
He counts the letters, and utters every word.
A pause before the nests in dusty corners
shall hatch, pupate, shiver to guilt again.
Insomnia is a fist of fluttering moths.
Debt
Above the promise of this farm
the gods clench fists, pummel clouds
until crops are knuckled by rain;
there’s thunder and lightning,
– gods thrive on melodrama.
After the gun smoke sky
a flash of magpie in flight over
the hurrying sorrow of debt.
Not for me, granddad whispers,
the room rutted with hope.
Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. His writing can be found in various publications, most recently in: Sein und Werden, Ink Sweat and Tears, Autumn Sky Poetry, London Grip and The Centrifugal Eye.
These three made me sit up. Distinctive voice, emotional punch, and the heft of mouthed consonants. Love ’em
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Love the last particularly
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