The Emperor Had No Clothes Then No Mask

The Emperor Had No Clothes Then No Mask

The emperor had no clothes, then

No mask.

Bare necessities

Or not

So it seems.

Strutting stridently

On his

Self-styled stage.

Emperor or jester?

Which side

Of the coin?

Simon C.J. Falk 11 October 2020

Into Denial

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Into Denial

 

Denial

No, it’s not

It didn’t

Happen

You were here

Now

Denial 

you are not 

not denial

You were robust

Always strong

Our light

Joking

Denial

With you we were

Safe and then

Fading

Denial

You seemed

Distant

Denial

I’m not here now

And you’re not there

Not

There

Not…..

A memory left of you

But we remember

Always

Always, we remember.

 

Simon C.J. Falk     28 July 2020

 

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Lost Soles?

Vincent Van Gogh did a number of studies on work shoes. He saw the meaning and story behind them.  Even the philosophers, such as Martin Heidegger, would write about it.

This frivolous verse seems light and vague at first. Beyond the humour is more. 

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Lost Soles?

 

Dropped

Discarded or

Lost.

Lost soles

Looking and

Longing

Lingering.

Oh the hide

Of separation!

Past postured parable

Perhaps?

Of the lost soul

Who lost them.

Booty of the bereft

Isolated

In lack

For a place

To pace

Where soles

And souls

May roam free.

 

Simon C.J Falk  27 April 2020

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Remembered Scent

 

Remembered Scent

 Car ignition

The motor and

a smell

long, long

forgotten

returned.

A long forgotten

scent

of him,

one loved deeply.

The same smell.

And we

remember.

The nose knows

and remembers.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 6 January 2020

To Forget

To Forget

 

We at table

talk –

to forget.

Muse over a morning

of banter and doings

of what we do –

To forget.

Pick up pages

of someone else’s

story, in a book,

escaping to….

Forget

The window hazy

The smoke entering

Open door

We remember.

Lest we forget –

The furrowed and frazzled brow

Of Firies*:

their boots

seared to the soles.

Sear not their souls

too much

we plead

as images roll in,

role in too,

as politicians posture.

The worn weariness

worn like a day’s drearies,

As its been months’ now

that our bush has burned.

But

We remember

The Firies

and those who

offer water

shelter

food and

their love

tapped away on keys

that carry updates.

We remember

sacrifices made

by volunteers

leaving homes,

some leaving

country,

at the call

of the crisis.

Children paddle

families to freedom

Sons bear medals

Meant for their Fathers

Under the smoky

Southern sun.

 

 

*Firies is a term of endearment for Firefighters.

Simon C.J. Falk 6 January 2020

I Dreamed An Angel of Light

I Dreamed An Angel of Light

For Christchurch, NZ and too many others

I dreamed

An Angel of Light

Came down in the

Silence

Of the still dawn.

It gathered up

And held

The fallen

Close

To its bosom

And then rose

On great wings

To soar like eagles

Bringing them to

Eternal light and peace.

 

Simon C.J. Falk 18 March 2019

 

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We Three Kings A-Cantering Are

We Three Kings A-Cantering Are

Recently, I heard a rendition of the Christmas Carol ‘We Three Kings’.  The pianist played in such a way that captured the pace of camels feet bearing their cargo. Initially startling, it was surprisingly refreshing and kept returning over the day.

Tink, tink,

Tink, tink,

Clip, clop,

Clip, clop,

We three kings a-cantering are,

Our camels are off,

So watch us, ah,

Hill and valley,

No dilly-dally

Cantering to a star

Ohhhh…

 

 That piano

In its metronomic affect

Turns us inwardly

Inside out

And up and

D

O

W

N

To the pace of camels

A-cantering, a-cantering.

Ah, the energy and verve

Striking every nerve

Ending to its beginnings

It has us all singing.

Never ever before

Has this tune taken the floor

In a such a way

Oh, to stay and sway

On the dromedary delight

We may take to flight

At the sound of the piano.

But we go

Yet find a memory still aglow

Of the flight of the camels

By day and night.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 7 January 2019

Drinking From A Dry Well

Drinking From A Dry Well

Drinking from

from a dry well

chewing over no longer

the savouring similes

but grinding on the grit

of dust

and deadness

where the words came from

once

but now

gone.

Simon C.J. Falk 4 December 2018

Where Are You My other Self?

Where Are You My Other Self?

Where are you

My other self?

It’s like a hole

Has opened up

Within

And creativity has

Vacuously gone

Through the opening

And is

No more.

Simon C.J. Falk 4 December 2018

We Walk Past Now The Room Where The Poems Are

We Walk Past Now The Room Where the Poems Are

We walk past now

Scurrying away down the corridors

Of bustling business and

Busyness and superficial fluff.

Its door is closed now

And we know not where

The key has gone in the dark

The dank direction near its entry to

The room where the poems are

Forgotten history and

Nostalgic museums of

Creativity past

Up

Past

D

O

W

N

And past over, but

Past.

No longer accessible

They sit in the dark.

Yet even a seed

Hides in dark soil.

Simon C.J. Falk 4 December 2018