death

Poem: The Barghest

The Barghest is a figure from Northumbrian folklore. A monstrous black dog with large teeth and claws; believed to be an omen of death. This poem was in response to a prompt on the Top Tweet Tuesday platform on X.

The Bhargest

Sable-sad fur shifting in the gloam, 
you could be invisible but for your coronal eyes
blazing hotter than a hellhound’s, 
and those gouging silver-sickle claws glinting in moondusk, 
your blunt falchion-teeth rattling 
like promethean chains on the windspell. 

It’s hard not to choke 
on the wafting scent of your cavern-heft jowls, 
putrefaction palpable as a spit-roasted suckling pig. 
Sometimes you deafen the darkness with knowing - 
thunder-roars of finality. 

Old lives and older tales tell me to be wary of you. 
Beware of your paws for they will strike me down. 
But I’m no hostage to the opinions of others. 

To me,  you’re simply misunderstood. 
You’re no omen of death. 
Like all dogs, you’re a protector. 
A protector of life. You give us a chance to change, 
to settle balances before it’s too late. 

I’ve been called many names, none my own. 
We are kindred.
Not all that’s written and said, is true.

Natural Causes

From my window,
I can see a sycamore is dying, 
limp branches bereft of leaf and bud,
can’t hide the pallor of the trunk - 
                    a doomed fading grey, 
with sickly green blotches, 
as the lichen’s fate intertwines
with the withering tree.
Soon, wailing saws will end the pain, 
settling buried roots - 
	           to their final sleep.

Thanks for reading Natural Causes. Did the words resonate with you?

I have a few poems lined up to be released over the next few weeks, so keep your eyes peeled for those.

Take it Easy

Paul

Morbid Voyeur

The sneering wind 
flays the sycamore tree of limp,	 weak-willed branches
and their 	lichen tapestries  -		pearl and straw-yellow
while I stand		 watching,
a voyeur 			of death and violence
the wind doesn't want me to watch
howls at 	me 	to 	turn away
                        howls of 	shame
                        howls of 			embarrassment 
                        howls of 						       guilt
It ramps things up 
tearing down 		an elderly fence
that's been 	grey 	and withered 		for a while
Shock tactics.
But it doesn't shock me.
                         I’m still standing. Still watching.

Thanks for taking the time to read my poem. Did you like it? Feel free to leave a comment below or any constructive criticism.

Take It Easy

Paul.

Bobby’s Wake

The pitmen gather around the empty hearse,
standing like Davids around Goliath,
some with roll-up cigs burning,
a glowing tobacco-fuelled pyre for,
another brother lost to history.

The colliery band are gearing up,
it’s good to see them still looking strong,
a shame some of the brass looks dull,
but the sapphire and gold thread of the banner,
is still resplendent in the tender summer drizzle.

Bobby’s family give their thanks to the vicar,
with a handshake and bottle of whisky;
his widow unsteady from grief
– and a brandy she’d drank for his honour and her nerves –
is weightless in the arms of her daughters,
the sorrow they’re carrying is a heavy enough burden.

Some of his friends from the village,
wander around the nearby graves,
hunching over the headstones and fading flowerheads,
making empty apologies they aren’t there more often.


Everyone congregates at the roadside when the band begins,
ready for the march to the pub;
tubas and trumpets blowing out the tune to
‘The Bonny Pit Laddie’
a reminder of the man,
just returned to the earth;
close to the coal he used to dig.


At the pub – we all raise a ‘Percy Special’ in toast,
and the tales and tankards come thick and fast;
like pick-axes on silver-black mine walls,
did only a couple of years ago;
the only hush comes from the opening of the buffet table.


These ageing men who’ve fought the police and government;
legends in their own lifetimes;
know that they’ll be together again soon enough,
wondering if they’ll be the missing face, lying in the dirt;
some have a fleeting sadness on their hard faces,
quickly burnt away by the furnace behind their eyes,
and then songs break out with soft smiles

– this is a celebration.

Thanks for taking the time to read this poem.

I really appreciate all your support.

Take It Easy

Paul

Sarcophagi

The low autumn sun
blinding-white but bereft of gold
because the beech and sycamore stole it
to paint their leaves
before purging the dying
windswept sarcophagi of the season
everyone and everything
wants to be a king for a day
and all kings know kingdoms fall
crumble to decay
and history remembers in bronze
the colour of rotting leaves
atoms return to atoms
return to life elsewhere.

Thanks for taking the time to read my poem about autumn.

I hope you enjoyed it, if so why not check some of my other work out.

Take It Easy

Paul

Photo from unsplash: Ilham Ramadhan