The Poetry of Les Wicks
CHAOS
Stars just stand around.
Moon is snooping.
I am old & terrified
of a bag snatch night,
the stab of space.
Copyright Les Wicks
SLIPPING AWAY
Two trains collide...
framesteel, aluminium & glass for
this salad of damage.
At the margin
a signal is smug. Red. "You were warned".
Some of those trapped
are listless, tucked
like throwaway tabloids between seat & wall.
Others frantic, their pain-focused outrage
delivers the rescuers if for nothing
but seeking some quiet.
Then three people on the list
are simply not there. A question mark at the end of an article
with spouses & kids hysterical on the news.
The doctor suggests amnesia.
They are not mentioned again, these three
who left the rails
scrambled up the embankment
beneath morning sky
smudged rose by flashing ambulance.
Their work clothes are torn by blackberry,
quality shoes collecting clay
in their deep cut soles.
Were their briefcases still attached,
packed lunches?
What work was awaiting them
what home left behind
now frantic, dislocated?
Perhaps no injury. They
were birds who loitered quietly by the cage door,
waiting for a slip.
Now together,
an unknowable marriage
soldered in a moment then
to be nameless in Surrey.
Odd jobs & peace with
peak hour just a murmur in the trees.
Copyright Les Wicks
ARRGH
"They get you while you're sleeping!"
Remember "Invasion of the Body Snatchers"?
But we watch too much TV
& THEY get you on the off ratings season.
Your body is stolen
in arguments over new fridges, xmas gatherings, school reports.
Cocooned in a dry stringy shell
made from potato chips & dental floss.
A truckload of cholesterol.
Our bodies are snatched
by mundane dooms.
You trade yourself up -
silverplate garbage bags, olympic room renovation.
Riding to work on the bus
is as straight as data.
"There is a free one here somewhere."
You scan the paper for clues.
We march to music
as cold as Jupiter.
The notion of peace
is like an email from Mars.
Copyright Les Wicks