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The Web Poetry Corner

Graham F. Coleman

of

London, England, UK

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Failure Stalks

by

Graham F. Coleman

In weeks of failure stalks
the shadow of death hurts like a horse
riderless, roaming
up to its fetlocks in surf

In weeks of failure stalks
the moon casts a baleful look
lets its monocle soar to the floor
swallowing a yawn

In weeks of failure stalks
we may as well
cultivate rain in the garden of flies
raise mincemeat in fields of rice

We may as well
hand over the keys
to the unknown ghost
surrender luxury to the mice

And the bailiff walks
three steps behind
crook and staff, staff with crook
thick as thieves
all in cahoots

Popping corpses with pitchforks
boasting for their gratitude
and heading for the coast
in a broken down charabanc
on weeks of failure stalks


Edge of Nowhere

by

Graham F. Coleman

Puddles of confluescence
constitute the paving
of the slabs that
floor the surface of the roof
And without the window
lies the garden of the
pave, of the slabs in their roof-
top station

Slumped in gravity, auras
of rain-flecked
thumbprints
surround them, the spreading
whisper of absorption
and dispersal of the rain

Pokes of towers
spray the backdrop, fire-
traffic heads beam like
lollipops and loom
in the fashion
of unassuming herons

Caught down, laid down
corked down to size
put back to the fridge
in case of unsuspected
mildew, and broken
of their wings


Yes, no, maybe

by

Graham F. Coleman

Someone asks me a question
(closed)
I answer with a simple ‘no’
(relieved)
I am amazed I can speak
(whisper)
and put the right word
(grunt)
in the right order
(success)
I am amazed my mouth opens and sound comes out
(murmur)
it remains to be seen what else I can do
(talk)
maybe there is no limit
(sing)
to my accomplishments
(dance)
wouldn’t that be something
(anything)
on this fabulous day
(doomed)


State what a state

by

Graham F. Coleman

State
what a state
what
a
thing to be
in
a
state such as
this
with
horseshoes
and ribbons
given
by
one
such as
you
and
blinded
temporary
over come