Highwayman

 

The highway man

had lost his head.

He kept looking,

was it under the bed?

He had it yesterday,

but his memory

is not what it used to be.

 

Hazy images of glinting blades,

prison cells, that rotten cage.

The hangman's noose,

that necklace of shame.

But he just can't find where he left his head,

just memories of a judgemental man,

pointing at him, with a black cap on.

What did it all mean?

His memory wasn't what it used to be.

 

He thinks back, not sure how,

seeing as he has no brain now,

at the week before.

A big score,

easy pickings he thought,

but alas he was caught.

It's starting to return,

his memory,

he took a wrong turn

and the wrong carriage he did stop.

Stand and deliver, he barked

but instead of a rich easy mark

he found an armed mob.

 

Hazy images of glinting blades,

without his head the images fade.

The memory turned red,

hanging from the gallows over head.

The rolling baying crowd

 the light blinking out.

But the highwayman had lost his mind

'Twas attached when they snapped his spine.

But now it lay elsewhere,

a trophy perhaps

in the hangman's lair.

 

 

Thanks For Reading,

Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle

 

Arachnophobia

 

Tears of a clown

 

When the sound poured down

from the stage, like the tears on my face,

tears of a clown, I felt you around.

Happy sadness, joyful sorrow,

I cry for yesterday and smile for tomorrow.

 

You can read the tracks of my tears,

on my face, they trail from mournful eyes.

To my smile, memorialised in the lines.

Blessed distress, I feel happiness,

for all of the moments shared 

there is only thankfulness.

 

Every bassline, each drumbeat, every note

every vocal that floats,

make me think of childhood days.

You would put a record on the turntable,

Marvin Gaye,

Temptations, The Impressions

Smokey, any of the Motown sensations.

And you would sing (We would groan)

but in truth the music made us feel at home

 

Tears of a clown,

when I hear it, I can't feel down.

The tears on my face, are memories to treasure,

happy rivers, not bearers of bad weather.

Not filled with displeasure

because they remind of the days

we were all together.

 

Thank you for reading

Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle.

Beacon

 

 

The view murky and unclear

darkness is near, nothing but shapes

in the midst of fear.

In the misty air, nothing is clear

but the crack of broken branches

from footsteps I hear.

 

Noise and sounds,

close to me, closing in.

The smell of woodland ground.

The touch of cool air, on skin.

I'm free, but sinking,

mind is overthinking.

 

Can taste electricity in the air,

tastes like anger and pain.

A storm is brewing.

Can smell the rain.

Can feel the humidity,

wet and clinging,

like cellophane dampening my brain.

 

The footsteps get closer.

The snapping sounds

like it's right behind.

If I turn, will I see a shroud?

A figure looming through my clouded vision.

Will I scream aloud?

 

I feel a hand on mine.

Calming, peaceful and kind.

Through the darkness into which I'm thrown,

a voice,

with a helpful tone.

With a light shining

a beacon home.

 

Thanks for reading.

Trisha McCourt, 

one of the poets on a Facebook group that I frequent 

is going blind unless she can get extensive cateract surgery,

she needs help to cover the costs, medical and aftercare.

This is a terrible thing for anybody to go through.

If anyone can help then please donate here, 

even if it is just a few pounds/dollars.

 https://gofund.me/aafafc6e