Poems
Poems
Nine Eleven
Like smouldering torches the towers
stand blackened against the sky
then floor by floor,
almost majestically,
collapse to the ground.
No use praying to your God
that those you love are still alive.
It was God that pierced them.
'Allahu Akbar';
God is Great they shout
as they fly a mass
of tortured bodies
through the sky.
Death is the point of life.
And it's God that throws dice
to discover who lives.
A man returns the birthday shirt,
a gift from his mother.
If he'd liked it, he'd be at his desk
no longer here to say thank you.
That day, across the ocean,
a book is launched.
How to be single, cook badly
but get away with it.
Flippancy personified.
It's a wine bar party,
mini-speeches made, copies sold.
Great being single.
You don't have to phone
to say you'll be late and
can cook any way you want.
Beside the towers they grieve,
yearning for the call
that the one they love is just late.
But in this randomized world,
luck strewn like straw in the wind,
the call never comes.