Running in old age

and I will wait
until your lover has gone
should it take sixty years
if you call
I will come.

and I will wait
until all your lovers have passed
to hold your hand
I will run if you ask.

and I will wait
never noticed
out of sight,
watching lovers leave you
mourning my chance denied.

Destiny that dictates
all my seasons through
we’re never to stand to-to-toe
silent as lovers do.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011 

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This Trench

This trench is no cenotaph
but filled with the fallen
for whom seconds ago
the whistle was calling;

Thank God to be missed
by an inch to the left
running not forward
but headlong to death.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

I hate buses

Buses, buses everywhere
running for mine to catch
shotgun ready
hand-grenade pin pulled
just in case mine
is full of chavs.

I live in a depressing, harsh, ex coal mining town in the north of England, “Chav” is a term used to describe a distinct underclass who posses no moral compass, fashion sense or personal volume control button. I am cursed to travel on public transport with many of these primates as my enforced travelling companions. I wish my iPod volume went up to eleven.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011 

Out with the dog, back with a poem

The dog and I walk
flat top slag heaps
crushed cinder paths
atop a rich vein of verse.

Convinced all words will
soon fail me
I pray to the Mother
of Mother Earth.

My heart sinks
bitter back home;
my muse, my love long gone
but the dog still runs blindly
into the empty kitchen;
where like the sun
you once shone.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011