Roadkill English Poems Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The Day of the Lion 10/11/24
We stand facing the massive granite lion
Fronting the city's war memorial
In the sharp air seagulls soar

The lion is couchant, his fierce jaws semi-open,
As if swallowing a roar

The flag bearers under his paws
Stand ramrod straight,
Their poppies red as gore

Each man has a chestful of medals
Each ribbon stands witness to war

The city clock has been stopped.
The Flooers o the Forest echoes mournfully
The flags are dipped

Between and around us,
The invisible dead slip incognito
Those who never lived to see their prime

This is their day to be remembered
This is their sliver of time

After the silence, the ghastly spectre of war recedes
The regimental honours are raised
The town resumes normality
The dead with a chilly sigh
Retreat back into history


Roadkill
Half a wing flaps on the tarmac
Ripped from the body that lies 10 metres away

Once it was part of a whole
a sky diver
a cloud wheeler
a puddle sipper
a dung dropper

Once it was a creamy white bird
a scare shopper
a food stalker
a roof percher
a street gangster

Once it was a sharp throated squawk

Half a wing flaps on the tarmac
Tyre treads flatten it
With herringbone patterns

Tree
It started as a sapling, one foot tall
A baby, you could snap it with your fingers

Each year it stretched another yard to heaven
Drank the black milk of night, supped the warm food of sun

Slowly it rose up, silent to the stars
Daily it bounced to the breezes' buoyant rhythm

It lived in a city garden, paid no rent
The human neighbours found its presence irksome

There were complaints, it blocked one family's view
Another claimed its roots dug up the pavement

A third man threatened to sue if it made him trip
The tree, having no say in where it stood, made no response

In thirty years, it grew roof high
Then came the woodsman with climbing ropes and saw

He stormed up its sides, like a nimble squirrel
Slicing the tree in sections from the crown

A day and a half the landmark pine was lopped
Branch by branch, its fragrant needles dropping

Reduced to woodchips, all that grace and elegance
Fragrant perch of any passing bird

All that remained was a stump, blackened like charcoal
An empty space where a living thing had been

Larry Butler- Sukhema
Teacher-researcher-publisher-mentor
Everything he does is left of center

Born in Illinois, in Glasgow settled
Always calm…never seen him nettled

He cooks, he dances, he goes wild swimming
He laughs at death, check Living our Dying

He's a Tai Chi master, a meditator
He's the Scottish Lapidus main convener

He teaches renga and therapeutic writing
A Dhanakosa tutor his workshops are exciting

Join his playspace, read Autumn Voices
His therapeutic writing helps folk make good choices

Move on up, to the Maggie Center
Art on prescription, a well words presenter

Survivor's Poetry, hospice, hospital, retreat
Learn from Sukhema…join in. Pull up a seat

On Waking
A dream turns upside down
Thoughts scramble to stand to attention
Reality must be resumed

A lighthouse floats past a pier
The town house resumes its position
The market cross stops whirling
Through clouds of sleep

How will today roll out?
Like a flipped coin
Dropped in the wishing well at King's

A crab cripples out from a sea rock
Lobsters snap in their creels

Dawn breaks red as a wound,
A conspiracy of gulls patrol the streets

The warm cocoon of bed
Gives way to the unknown moments
That can turn on a pin head

Normal service returns with some interference


The Rough Sleeper
We who take running water cold and hot for granted
Who live in our warm houses with our flush toilets
With our phones, our TVs, our carpets
Our pets, our fixtures and fittings
Were disagreeably affrighted
When a rough sleeper decided to sleep roughly
On the steps of our theatre where some of us worked.

Peel away the feminist, Women are timid at heart.
This rough sleeper was not performing a part
He was the real deal

The first witness said he was dressed in black
Like Sweeney Todd. The rumour raced round the foyer
Like galloping consumption

At the next telling, the rough sleeper
Was a rampant paedophile, a Jimmy Saville monster
Soon, he had morphed into a homicidal maniac

A theatre goer offered to swear on a stack of bibles
She'd seen a machete, gleaming out of his jacket

Her husband who confronted him
Said that the rough speaker grunted like a yeti
Like a Neanderthal.

Having no point of reference to compare him with
The rough sleeper probably came from Saturn.



Aberdeen Beach
The tide rushes the sand, skimming over
The slippery surface, wiping it clean
Retreating, returning under oyster skies
Salty, luscious, it creeps to swallow the shore
Down the monstrous mawe of the grim North Sea
The wind is a fish knife slicing the day apart
A yappy terrier snaps at a wave
Shakes its sides in a shock of spray
Mother of pearl clouds roll by
Awash with a catch of gulls