Poetry by David Strong

There may be people in your life

That will tell you that black is blue

Don’t believe them.

Black is not blue.

They may take an insistent, aggressive stance

But stand your ground, 

There is not a chance

That black is actually blue.

Oh yes....

In different lights, and with different shades

The difference may only be slight

But, like black and white

Black is not blue.

And yet, they may be colour-blind... hey...

They may believe.

Through and through... turning the screw

They may think they can make you

Say black is blue

They can inflict pain on you

Beat you up

Black and blue 

And you’d capitulate... and then you’d say

Black is blue. But that does not make it true.

Or they could threaten to hurt your child

Or your love to protect…

You would say whatever; read the cue…

Even that black is really blue.

But. They think it is.

And leading on…

There are fundamentals

Things that you know... truth

That the world is round. Not flat.

In the end you die. And that is that.

Good will triumph over evil.

It is wrong to persecute others

Right to believe in freedom and equal rights -

You should be safe, wherever you spend your nights...

And leading on... truth

You will not be a martyr, bound for eternal glory

In a jihad war 

If you blow yourself up

And kill and maim innocent. You are wrong!

Black is not blue!

I don’t care what you say... hey!

Yours is a perverse, crazy and twisted ideology

Not a reflection of gentle Islamic theology

There is no ephemeral truth

No all-powerful religion

That is worth killing and dying for.

And what is more...

Just because you have the ignorance, the power

To hate and anger consumes your waking hour

Black will never,  never, never, never become blue.

Love overcomes hate

And will overcome you.

I know you.

The distant shouts and wild houndly whine

Sending shivers down my spine. 

And you: creepy crawling up the wall

Fearful many-legged thing.

You too.

I know you:

With your reptilian lidless staring eyes;

Threatening me with some abduct daring lies.

Knowing that you could my side prod and yet

Shuffled down beneath blanket hidden gaze

Could levitate me through window raised.

But you do not.

You are not there.

At 3am on a sleepless night..

Your age doesn’t reassure you.

Though it’s irrational too.

I know you.

You have always been there.

As we get older you morph into another shape

Dressed in a flowing diaphanous ugly black drape.

And you.

The ghostly wisp of apparition smoke

Yet my closed eyes won’t see you.

There is no menacing creaking of the outside door.

It’s just the whispering breeze and nothing more.

I know you all.

I know you.

You are dark.

A steam train whooshing (toot-toot!) across the ocean (chuff chuff!)

Bobbing up and down on the waves… no rails

Would be a preposterous sight to see.

A man on a bicycle with an icicle hanging from his nose 

Riding up high in the sky way above the clouds

Pedalling as fast as his cold little legs would allows

Would be a ludicrous sight to see.

Four boys rapidly, frantically rowing a wooden dinghy

Down the high street

Carrying a jam-jar full of dirty water and a tadpole or two

Would be a ridiculous sight to see.

24 dragonflies pulling on silver threads

A carved pumpkin shell on wheels

With the King of fairies on a little throne

Sitting inside.

Would most certainly be a supercilious sight to see.

Wing riding, strapped down tight

On a giant balsa wood plane flight

A friendly giant hand would be needed

To launch it arm-length unimpeded.

Would be a surreptitious thing to see. (I think)

Riding a glass lift

Through a giant wedding cake (made by Sophie)

Past layers of marzipan and icing

With a drop of brandy for enticing

A moist rich fruitcake is never passé

With lemon peel, currants, sultanas and cherries glace.

Would be a delicious thing for tea.

And here I am again.

Riding a cable car

Through my mind

Thoughts hanging on the strands of cable wire.

And going nowhere. 

These meandering thoughts are such a doddle.

Why does my imagination conjure up such twaddle??

Clock tock tick.  

Springs and things   

Cogs and wheels   

Making the    

Tick tock clock. 

Unless it’s battery   

But then there’s still   

A cog or two    

That moves the hand    

And makes the sound   

Tock tick clock.   

Watches are small on your wrist  

Don’t you be late for school   

Watch your watch: that’s the rule  

Tock clock tick.      

Digital is different   

No sound there    

For you to hear.    

Clock tick tock   

LED numbers on a screen  

To tell you where time has been  

Tick clock tock.  

Clock tock tick. We used to have a clock

On the mantelpiece at home.

25 years service my Pop had done

Wooden shaped surround and chrome

Tick tock clock. (I loved the sound it made)

Silver wedding day:

Still at home,

Cousins and aunties, uncles too.

And my presents to Mum and Pop

Silver watches I gave.

Tock tick clock.

Proud me! But sighed. (I got them back when they died)

Bedside table; clock radio alarm;

Music woke me up....we even had a teas made.

Tock clock tick.

Fashion accessory for you… Rolex?

Timex is more for me. 

And the watches and clocks still go

 Clock tick tock

Hours and days go by they mean.

To tell you where time has been.

Tick clock tock.

In poetry

Sometimes , usually...

You have to create a melody, a pretty end to a line

The do it similarly on the next; it’s called a rhyme.

Now,

I gotta think of a word that rhymes with rhyme...

A B C D E F G H I J K L... Lime.

Lime.

That’s a little bitter green citrus fruit;

Like lemons and oranges but wearing a different suit.

But what can you do with a lime?

It’s sour and it’s nasty,

And what can you say about a lime...

When you’re meaning to write about a rhyme?

Not easy.

And the point is

You don’t have to

And this is called free verse.

No rhymes, no rules

Write what you want...

A bit like this.

Here’s something else you don’t have to be

When you’re writing your poetry

(nice rhyme there)

And that’s rhythmic.

It’s about making the lines

Syllables counted, precise and matching meter

Sounds like singing like in a tune and sweeter

Like on a birthday card:

La di a di a di da, di da di a di da...

Awful. Light and boring horrid.

You don’t have to do it.

Even if teacher says you do.

People like to be clever

When writing.

They have so many different types of poetry:

With couplets and quatrains through

Like a fourteen line sonnet true

And a renga, a haiku, a ballad, a rondeau too

They have rules

Numbers of lines

Parameters and pentameters

To confuse you.

And me.

I don’t like them.

Sorry.

Hey. But don’t think poetry is naff

It is not so.

No way!

Poetry is cool,

Poetry is song; download the lyrics... that’s poetry

Rapping is poetry.

But poetry has a bad press... and is for old, balding posh guys who think they are clever and... hey that’s me!!

Sorry!

All you have to do.

In poetry

Is to have something to say

Something funny

Something sweet and nice

Something true.

And be you.

Have a style of your own.

Be you.