Poetry: Selections from Antony Maher

A Human Curiosity

I like it when in a clear state of mind whilst eyes are closed, drifting, a startling twitch can encourage a formation of black and white lines, zig-zagging their way across your mind. Intrigued by death.

 

When in the still of the night a screaming catfight wakes you hastily, so much so that you jolt up from your bed in fear that it's your cat on the receiving end of an alleyway beating. Intrigued by death.

 

When nothing makes sense except a tedious tiring of your mind; an unforgivable ignorance toward the rest of the human race, including the ones you hold dearest, consumes you momentarily. Intrigued by death.

 

When a screaming baby squarks, shattering the silence of your street, and the darkness makes your mind wander into those lonely coves you don't ever want to visit. Intrigued by death.

 

Your heart beats with misery, and self-pity strangles each inhale you take, worry threatens every exhale and you cannot move through fear that one day you will no longer exist or feel this way - or even be here at all.

Headlights

light sometimes evades the day

as if stolen by the lost, lonesome him

he, who also chooses to cut off and steal our tongues the thief!

 

eyes, like a rabbits, locked

in the middle of a dark road

in the line of tyres' sight, trapped,

scared and restrained by doubt

 

you'll find him at the back of the room,

in the darkness where the light doesn't shine

the silhouette closest and most comfortable

sharing an existence with himself.

Hood

that look of death

a lack of colour

an ill complexion

 

a sincerity in those shrinking eyes

the escaping darkness of a stolen soul

 

from a secret flaming pit,

the black hood sits, hacking at a set of chains

 

attempting to set himself free

Grenade

around a hectic grenade

fingers tightly grip

 

I pull the pin but

forget to throw

Fishes

the wind direction changed

a reflection in the mirror

a friend used him to gain

squeezed his hurt-lock trigger

 

falling down a mountain

pushed backward down a slide

jumping off a swing

positioned on a windy cliff-side

 

free-falling alone

no-one else could see

whilst wearing a mask he hid

out of view, in his mind - a sea

 

a blade pulled from a drawer

fear helped to choose a knife

cheeks drowning in tears

anxieties taken out on life

 

holding himself hostage

tight skin fighting off the pressure

an accomplice in his hand

his wrist shook out a quiver

 

buckling under tension

a rip tore through his skin

blood appearing rapidly

his pain released again

 

bleeding out alone,

spilling out his dreams

in pools of red around him

fishes escaping from red streams

 

the wind dies down

a reflection in the mirror no more

Antony Maher is a writer from near Grantham, England. He writes to free-up space in the midst of an extremely hectic and chaotic (treasured) family life.