Keppie Clarke

A Poem

Photo by Jeremy Bezanger on Unsplash

In the wee hours
shoes in hand
they’d lie back and listen
music and laughter
late night revels
or at least pieces
drifting
through that poorly-glazed window

Once a woman sang
round and round
fading and rising
falling and lifting
an aria to the orange night

Once a piano sprung
impossibly
to life

And once
on the strangest of nights
a didgeridoo

She remembers that didgeridoo
now
when the hours are old
and the skylight is hung tight
against rain and sky
making air seem precious
and silence takes up all of existence
and silence is the night

--

--

A Poem

Photo by Victória Kubiaki on Unsplash

It’s a bow, plucked,
brave as a lion,
roar resounding;

Or it’s empty noise,
drowning in money,
careless of meaning.

It’s exactly what’s needed;
it’s nothing that’s expected.

It’s a way forward;
it’s a look backwards.

It’s a wound cleansed
or a scar torn open.

It’s hope;
it’s resignation.

It’s as pretentious as it sounds
and not at all.

It’s your gut
and your pounding blood.

It’s your mind,
released from static.

It’s a note sounded,
echoing into nothing.

It’s a cry lifted
and remembered.

It’s words,
just words.

And, hopefully, meaning.

--

--

A Poem

Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash

Sometimes I think I have somehow or other
Found myself existing in an unnecessary comma:
A pause without meaning, an unrhythmic
Stop that serves only to irritate and to
Make the long suffering wonder
Whether anyone ever learns anything at all.

--

--

A Poem

Photo by Hello I'm Nik on Unsplash

That’s the way the world is, she said.
Or so we dream it to be, aye? says me.
Aye is cheeky, aye is ironic,
Aye is always the same dream,
Aye is can’t we ever wake?
Side-eye is an appropriate response.

--

--