Take two

Can’t wait for this year to end. 

Can’t wait for the bough to break. 

Can’t wait for the road to bend. 

My life needs a second take. 

So run the sound on up to speed, 

commence the visual sequence. We 

shout action! Catch the visual feed. 

Capture all, in every frequency.

Can’t wait for the year to expire 

so we can let the new one in. 

We all need something to inspire. 

Take two. We all begin again. 

Steve Wheeler © 31 December, 2020

image source

The backstory

I love back stories. That's why I read a lot of autobiographies. The narrative behind an event, artefact or person is usually hidden but can be fascinating. 

The stories behind the writing of poetry can also be compelling, not least because all we see is the finished product. 

What about all the drafts and discarded words and phrases? What about all the emotion that is invested into the writing of a poem? 

Where was it written, and what was happening at the time? What was the poet trying to convey to readers, and is there any hidden meaning in the verses?

All of these questions are addressed by Christal Cooper in her blog including a photo feature for each poet. Here's her interview with me about the poem Broken Rainbows (which was published in my Urban Voices collection, 2020). It's number 223 in her fascinating series. 

Take a read. You may find it interesting!

Lovely desolation

Lovely desolation

hidden high

within the cloud, 

and windswept hills

where yellow moorland

bracken rises proud

Dangerous oblivion

in the quagmires of the lost

and might of granite outcrops

sweeping low

to meet the moss

and oh, the sky

capricious sky

with clouds and colours

fleeting low and wide

so ancient Dartmoor greets you,

and then just as quickly,

pushes you aside

Steve Wheeler © 29 December, 2020

image source

Stealing the stars

If I could 

then I would 

steal a star right

out of the sky 

to give to you. 

 

Unfortunately 

there’s nowhere

I can safely store

a two million mile

diameter sphere 

of burning gas

with a surface 

temperature

of five thousand

degrees Kelvin 

Sometimes

being a romantic 

is totally 

impractic 

al 

Steve Wheeler © 29 December, 2020

image source

Calcified

The skeletons of winter trees

raise bony arms and fingers high

to graze a grey and leaden sky

and you and I are calcified

I make no bones about it 

Steve Wheeler © 28 December, 2020

image source

Goodbye Mr Narcissist

Step down, and move away from your pedestal / the pain you’ve inflicted has been incredible / the damage is more than collateral / it’s astronomical / your truth has been economical / your ‘alternative facts’ would’ve been comical / if your lies and indecision weren’t so moronic and unacceptable / all you’ve ever done and said has been clinically cynical / your fake news was self-seeking and elliptical / you’ve done your best in your quest to be dishonest and pretensional / unteachable / and unreachable / and it’s typical / and predictable / that you would be so consistently one-dimensional // 

What we all really think of you is unprintable / and unrepeatable // you thought you were unbeatable / in your own mind, you were undefeatable / you thought you were invincible / and indestructible / unbelievably, you still think you’re unsinkable / what goes around comes around and it’s cyclical / it’s unthinkable / your self-delusion is inexplicable / it’s stubborn and egotistical / it’s malignantly narcissistical / and that kind of sickness is untreatable // 

At times like this it’s conventional / to mention the unmentionable / let me tell you, you were never presidential / your default position was unconscionable / if someone disagreed with you, it was like a red rag to a bull / your social media was spitefully unsociable / your tweets and posts were risible / and your deceit was always visible / you should have been impeachable / but your umbrella was party-political / unbreachable / formed by your buddies in a corrupt cabal / it was despicable / unethical / and pitiful / but at best your percentage of protection was only marginal // 

Whenever you were met by opposition all / your anger and your rage was considerable / your face was often unsmiling and miserable / for you the mug was always half empty, never half full / you were never very happy with the feasible / deliberately playing the unreasonable / you were always playing up to your white supremacy pals / it was base relational / and you’re still insatiable / you crave it all / the power and glory of it all / and the adoration, all / from the electoral / crowds, but through it all / you’ve been mentally unstable / and pathologically unable / to be amicable / and charitable // 

Your behaviour is despicable / and reprehensible / your decency is invisible / your conscience is minimal / your morality is switchable / your charity is fictional / and you’re a shameless individual / even your taste in decor is kitsch and all / you say is a lie – you ain’t rich at all / and what you suffer from ain’t fixable / so I predict your future will be miserable / because you’re basically an imbecile / you’re a serial criminal / your situation ain’t winnable / so crawl back under your rock and be invisible / go grab ‘em by the pussies and swallow your pride along with your cholesterol // 

 
Steve Wheeler © 26 December, 2020 

image source

Before

Before they got their hands on me

I was unconditioned, roaming free.

Before they taught me who to be

I was unexplored, a mystery.

I was virgin snow, unmarked, untrod,

a pristine soul with feet unshod,

before they mired my mind with rules

like all those other feckless fools. 

Steve Wheeler © 26 December, 2020

image source

Gravitation

She was my world 

and I was her moon 

My orbital pathway 

was ended too soon

Steve Wheeler © 9 December, 2020

Starlight

Starlight reaching down

to graze my soul

across millennia; 

light years 

of existence 

in a single instant. 

How often 

have I scanned 

this ancient dome of sky 

to seek some solace 

from the fraught insanity 

of life? 

Orion’s shoulders 

and angular Cassiopeia; 

the static pulse of Polaris 

and the meanderings 

of Draco as he traverses 

the milky carpet 

of the silver winter sky; 

All provoke the pause, 

the gaze of wonder, 

a catch in the breath. 

Many times 

the light from 

distant worlds long gone 

has arrested my vision, 

washing over my mind 

with inspiration. 

Steve Wheeler © 22 November, 2020

image source

Dream me

Dream me into existence 

and I will be there 

hovering like an autumn mist 

in the vestiges of your mind 

Think me into being 

and my presence will be known 

beneath the veneer of your knowing 

inside the colours of your imagination 

Steve Wheeler © 17 November, 2020

image source

Endgame

It doesn’t take a Herculean effort / to see that life on this fragile blue planet / is becoming precarious and more than it / can contain is coming down on it / as nature writhes around in a febrile fit / while we transform each forest into a barren desert / and there seems no easy way of stopping it / as each corporation grasps for its share of the profit / we see the loud mouthed social media misfits / and hear all the political spin prophets / selling their souls on the back of it / and looking away from change in the climate / as they continue to deny there’s anything in it. // 

This is more than a tragic shame / and we all need to take the blame / rich and poor, all of us are just the same / no excuses, whether justified or lame / we just sold our planet down the lane / when we took our eyes off the ball in the game / and our children’s futures are running down the drain / as we start the countdown for this planet's endgame. // 

We have long been abusing our tenure / when we think we can do what we want here / but as the sea levels rise dangerously higher / and destructive storms become increasingly stronger / and drought and floods are an imminent danger / the odds are becoming so much longer // 

as we try to prolong our collective survival / our carbon emissions stand without rival / and you know this stuff is far from trivial / though the will to stop it ain’t controversial / but all of the top climate change deniers / and the myriad ignorant science decriers / conveniently overlook all the facts in the files / they’re fiddling while the earth is on fire / like Nero did as Rome’s flames burnt higher / every last one of them is an absolute liar / each one is a self-interested betrayer / all part of a cabal of elite conspirers / hellbent on taking this down to the wire / while the Earth sits upon its own funeral pyre / and the future for our children is critically dire / and the world’s population is foundering in the mire // 

We’re living in a world of torment / where we all of us could easily prevent / the world’s next extinction level event / if only we would mutually consent / to limit the rubbish we have sent / up into the sky and the firmament / we know the atmosphere is not infinite / and our resources were never permanent / but the population seems to be hell bent / on a global scenario involving detriment //

The exponential rise in killer diseases / signals imminent destruction of our species / and while our survival chance decreases / it’s likely we’ll see the mass decimation / of our society in this next generation / with industrialised total domination / and ecological saturation / through the wanton, thoughtless jeopardization / of the health and safety of the population. //

This is more than a tragic shame / and each of us need to accept this blame / rich and poor, we’re all in this the same / there can be no excuses, whether justified or lame / for the way humanity has played this game / we collectively sold this planet down the lane / each of us has initiated this planet’s endgame // 

Steve Wheeler © 12 November, 2020

Photo by Pixnio

Pain

Time may not heal all our wounds 

nor the passing of the hours defer 

but other things may ease your pain 

Paracetamol for a kick off, Sylvia 

Steve Wheeler © 10 November, 2020

image source

Alchemy

Could you turn water into wine? 

Transform base metal into gold? 

Bring an unruly mob into line? 

Can you unfreeze a heart that’s growing cold? 

Steve Wheeler © 9 November, 2020

Image from Pickpik

Doorsteps

Rumour spread quickly. 

It didn’t take too long. 

Cheap lunches on sale. 

This way. Follow me. 

It soon became 

the student lunchtime throng. 

We would queue outside the back door, 

come rain or shine 

out of sight, waiting to order / 

ordered to wait, in line 

It was a strange place to queue, 

but none ever complained 

at the rear of the newsagents 

over on Folly Lane. 

Out front the shop legitimately 

selling papers, journals, magazines 

In the back room, selling 

doorstep sandwiches 

from a doorstep, unseen. 

You could have any flavour you liked 

for fifty pence (just half a quid) 

as long as it was cheese and pickle 

(or sans pickle, but no-one ever did).

Students are always ravenously hungry 

so we took all we could get. 

We would sit out on the grassy verge to eat, 

except when it was wet. 

The owner carved judiciously 

with his lethal looking bread knife, 

Hacking great doorsteps from 

fresh loaves of bread; 

sometimes it was his wife. 

Reinforcements stacked to one side 

like some far exotic mansion. 

On the other, Cheddar cheese blocks 

and massive jars of Branston. 

Carved into rustic lunchtime meals 

for hungry students just like me. 

Doorsteps on the newsagent’s doorstep 

way back on nineteen-seventy-three. 

Steve Wheeler © 8 November, 2020

Photo by Steve Wheeler

Agitpróp

Propaganda for the mind 

Ideology between the lines 

Dubious rhetoric and fiction 

Master of the tribal friction 

Spin doctors weaved his lies 

Ignored the many plaintive cries

Send it out to fool the masses

Forced division of the classes 

Agitation of the crowd

Whispering quietly, shouting loud

Workers of the world unite

False consciousness will blind the sight

The politics of fear and hate

Stopped by the people's mandate

Fallen now, to rise no more

Crushed in pieces on the floor

Steve Wheeler © 7 November, 2020

image source

Love is a metaphor

If love is a battlefield, I’m a loose cannon 

firing my salvoes across your bow. 

If love is a garden, I’m an unwanted weed. 

Take care, ‘cos you reap what you sow. 

If love is a wildfire, I’m out of control, 

consuming all things in my path. 

If love is a journey, I’m a bump in your road; 

I’m the snake you find coiled in your bath. 

If love is a galaxy, then I am a comet, 

my orbit burns bright round your sun. 

If love is an animal, I’m a cat among pigeons, 

ruining your day before it’s begun. 

If love is a market I upset the apple cart, 

the fruits of your labour all over the place. 

“Houston, we have a problem” right from the start 

The craft of our love is adrift in deep space. 

Steve Wheeler © 4 November, 2020

Image from Pikist

Propaganda

Image from Pixabay

If a poem falls in my notebook 

but no-one ever reads it, 

does it exist? 

When presidents spin their webs 

and turn a lie into ‘the truth’ 

should we resist? 

When everything goes pear shaped

and your plans are laid in ruins,

should you persist? 

If suddenly you disappeared 

from the face of this planet, 

would you be missed? 

Don’t fall hook, line and sinker 

for the vapid propaganda; 

of the vain election pledges 

that promise a bonanza 

of wealth and health and happiness 

contained in memoranda. 

(The answer is a big fat yes 

to each and every stanza). 

Steve Wheeler © 3 November, 2020

Image from Pixabay

Nonchalant sky

Arrhythmic metre of this union, 

remnants of our turbulent past. 

The muted spotlight of a watery sun 

casting light and shade contrasts. 

The waning of the evening light as 

a pock-faced moon is rising high, 

illuminating errors and regrets. 

Cold, beneath a nonchalant sky. 

Steve Wheeler © 3 November, 2020

Image by Steve Wheeler

A sudden thunder

A sudden thunder clap 

and cold rain fell to soak 

while all beneath the torrent 

scrambled to find shelter. 

It roused me from my nap 

beneath the gnarled old oak 

and found me running bent 

while fleeing helter-skelter 

The rains fell fast and ruthless 

the vicious winds were frightening 

the skies were darkest black 

as fire struck the trees 

I ran ‘till I was breathless 

while fearing for the lightning 

then reached my wooden shack 

where I fell gasping to my knees 

Steve Wheeler © 29 October, 2020

Photo from Pixy

Bonfires

Moses once stood near a burning bush 

Nero fiddled while Rome burned out 

The twin towers collapsed in a mighty rush 

'Cos there's plenty of arson about 

People like burning things just for fun 

The Brits razed the White House to the ground 

Books burned in Fahrenheit 451 

Yeah, there's plenty of arson around 

Wild fires and conflagrations 

Are hard to extinguish we've found 

Notre Dame's towers are belching smoke 

There's a truckload of arson around 

It's written in Samuel Pepys' diary 

That the Great Fire took days to burn out 

He said it was started by accident 

But there's still too much arson about 

Through the Armada, Drake's fireships tore 

The Dresden firestorm was a rout 

These fires were deliberate acts of war 

And there's far too much arson about 

Light the blue touch paper and retire, 

Fireworks make us gasp and shout 

Just don't be seduced by the bonfire 

'Cos there's far too much arson about 

Steve Wheeler © 28 October, 2020

Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Idiom proof

Time is running out 

but no-one ever follows. 

Grief is a bitter pill 

that everybody swallows. 

Hope is a symphony 

played on one instrument. 

Deeds without faith 

are like broken ornaments. 

When love lies abandoned, 

washed up on a shore, 

life is a sad poem, 

no less and no more. 

Steve Wheeler © 26 October, 2020

image source

Angry

His anger was all bottled up inside 

fermenting in a soup of hurt and pride 

when they shook him up, he locked and loaded 

inevitably, he blew his top and exploded 

Steve Wheeler © 25 October, 2020

Graphic by Steve Wheeler

Hidden verse

there are poems hidden in graffiti 

verses secreted in the urban scrawl. 

meaning hides itself within the artwork 

and in the pictures on the subway wall. 

stark may be the mural sketching 

but a simple truth is lurking there. 

its message to the ones that seek 

is written clearly: ‘we don’t care.’ 

rhythmic beats emerge in colours 

from the concrete stand and boundary wall. 

the tempo screams that we are human 

the rhythm beats that we stand tall. 

there are poems hidden in graffiti. 

there are messages within the street motif. 

none of us should ever shy from freedom, 

individual identity and self-belief. 

Steve Wheeler © 25 October, 2020

Photo by Steve Wheeler

Up, red balloon

A red balloon in azure skies 

aloft with helium grace it flies 

released by small hands into blue 

in minutes disappearing from view 

Rising through the firmament 

'til upward impetus is spent 

its navigation yet unknown 

up, red balloon, and by the winds be blown 

Steve Wheeler © 23 October, 2020

Photo by Pxhere

Foreign skies

Photo from Pixy

under foreign skies 

we all wander 

our eyes wide, gazing 

searching for landmarks 

amid unfamiliar places 

trying to remember 

we are all foreigners 

in this distant land 

far from our birthplaces, 

disconnected from our times, 

severed from our country 

our belongings are scattered 

across our histories 

strewn in the highways 

of our memories 

and hanging, caught among 

the briar thorns of our regrets 

how many times 

my father wandered 

aimlessly searching 

for familiar places he remembered, 

while the world around him changed 

Steve Wheeler © 23 October, 2020