Poetry

Customer Service

Control of this situation

is not in my hands sir.

I believe you need to take

a left up that corridor

and get fucked.

.

Ah, you have a problem?

You can’t log into your account?

Well I never sir, just bear with me,

I need a large box of tissues –

your tale is weep-worthy.

.

You can call me all the names

under the sun sir,

and any you find under that rock

you crawled from too.

.

Yes sir, I do love my job –

As much as you enjoy

a kick in the balls

and account closure.

 

Copyright © 2016 Hannah Edge.  All rights reserved.

 

Standard
Poetry

(Not) Our Fight

Live for moments –

glorious goals, leg stretching saves.

.

Panic over dramas –

fights for possession, triumph and trophies.

.

Watch from our sofa

(beer and insults in hand)

edge of our seat, knuckles bitten to bone.

.

Ninety minutes of heaven and hell.

Emotions rubbed raw, cut

and bruised heart for the sake

of success that is not of our making.

.

We’ve screamed better tactics,

begged for certain subs,

but we’re miles away,

no influence at all.

.

Copyright © 2016 Hannah Edge.  All rights reserved.

Standard
Poetry

Wade Into Water

Incoming oceanic

tide swallows

my thighs, sucks me

down.

.

I relent,

recline;

arms spread –

angelic starfish.

.

Eyes closed to scorching sun,

waves carry me –

child’s rollercoaster;

gentle dips,

subtle rises.

.

Mind a-

drift, body be-

calmed.

.

Shoreline a smear,

distant streak of horizon

and then the

.

Yank.

.

Claws that cling,

scratch, shred and pull

me

.

Down

and away.

.

Away from the sun,

from the sweet breath

of life.  Choking and gulping,

briny death attacks me.

.

Copyright © 2016 Hannah Edge.  All rights reserved.

Standard
Poetry

How do you press a rose

when its thorns bite and scratch

the page? Do you pluck each petal

and lay them flat, disembodied,

to act as nature’s wreathe?

Do you take scissors to the spine,

halve it, gut it like a sardine?

Do you snip each leaf, lay them

to rest around their own clothes –

convince everyone that beauty

overrides murder?

If you saw an innocent

child lay frozen in the snow,

no ice cold mist passing her lips,

would you pluck each hair

from her head, press

them in your notebook?

Would you take an axe

to her spine when her fingers poked out

or her nails etched pleas

on the page?

Or would you cry over the loss

of a sweet, sweet child

and lay the rose

across her chest?

Copyright © 2016 Hannah Edge.  All rights reserved.

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