Poetry

Take Flight

 

Close your eyes, drug your senses,

feel the wind scorch your face,

cling on tight, ready for our fight

***

as our dragon soars over forests of war;

as we cling to his scales, vibrate from his roars

***

smell the sulphur engulf us as clouds

open fire, their acid-rain melting

through airplanes and drones

that attack with dictatorship,

hatred and fear.

***

Religious fervour wears au-de-murder:

Children rotting, limbs detached,

innocent heads hang from the trees,

drip-feed the earth as Vitamin Pain.

Women weep, raped and beaten;

eyes hollow, they pray

for death’s hand on their throat.

***

As our dragon soars

and roars and snarls,

our  growing Eutopia

is suddenly Outopia;

***

as our dragon swoops low

he spits fire at the beasts

that demolish our peace,

our power, our time.

***

He tears them to ribbons

with claws glistening red;

he crunches on bones

 

with fangs sharp as razors.

***

Their screams die half-formed,

as we tremble with rage.

Too late we land and stand

in the massacre

of our people, our friends,

our freedom, our hope.

*** ***

Copyright © 2017 Hannah Edge. All rights reserved.

Image rights: sashulka.deviantart.com/art/Dragon-s-flight-402283943

 

 

Standard
Poetry

Airmail

Hoard your feelings

in this mouldy cardboard box.

Wrap them shut

with a cow’s intestines;

add its leather as a label

and send to Madagascar

***

where the lemurs can chew,

claw at the memories

and scents and tastes, devouring

your emotions until the pain

fades

away.

*** ***

Copyright © 2017 Hannah Edge. All rights reserved.

Standard
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.

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