MARK G. PENNINGTON - POEMS

Mark G. Pennington lives and writes in Kendal, UK and has poems in TL;DR and is soon to appear in Poetry Pacific and The Oddville Press. Previous publications are under the name J. Rose, including a first book published independently in 2012 titled Lithium Clockwork.
 

                             Sapphire diamond thoughts
 
 
A tune of misery and pretence,
Kitten and bauble in deep snow,
Belle-lettres,
Until the sea runs dry,
 
Flapping madly, I am the seaweed,
The night’s pliers,
The knackered phone,
Nobody calls.
 
Karst processes,
River flowing beneath Andrea,
Wherever her voice calls,
The snowman glistens.
 
Will there be birds in heaven?
Will the trees burst into song?
 
Flavours of the bleating heart,
Smelled like tulips in the rain,
Belief goes a long way in this life,
A musician ruminates,
 
She was there now in searching
And it would seem forever,
Stream and ripples of her,
Could not help but follow,
 
Skies swallow birds
Whole and spits them
Out at the seaside,
For eternity and beyond.
 
The young will know
To the envy of the old,
The young will forget to
The encouragement of the old,
 
When the dove sails,
Salient on the wind,
She has practiced and
Knows how to be free,
 
Angel in the dogfights,
Wings on wild doves,
Smiles as countless lovers
Have often worn in such melodramas.
Vignette
 
 
I cleaned the bathroom,
I edited seven pages of Balthazar for charity,
I got a haircut,
I went shopping,
I ate lunch,
I walked to my childhood home,
I returned to my flat,
I took a bath and washed my hair,
I visited my mother and father,
I left feeling assured,
I listened to the radio,
I drank some beer,
I ate beef bourguignon pie and green beans,
I washed the dishes,
I cleaned up,
I watched the soap opera,
I wrote a poem,
I read other people’s poetry,
I researched how to cut fennel,
Butternut squash,
And the best method of crushing coriander seeds,
I drank some whisky,
I listened to the radio once more,
Then I wrote this.
 
I am living this way,
With coconut and velvet;
Italian olive leaf
In the bedroom,
I have my mantras,
And in the evenings an endless rainfall
Lashes at the window
Like a broker’s tongue.

 
                                                     poesy
 
 
orchid gardens situated in haven of peace,
frequented on glorious free afternoons
where children fly kites against
high passions of the sunlight,
play and roam amongst vibrant colour,
flowers and the vapouring scents;
and it creates lost years. 
the blur of men and women walk side by side
on grey platforms, the moving segments of life
in panoramic stream endlessly against
the new Shenzhen vista. 
café is anonymously fitted with ultra-technological
communications for the flickers in Versace and the espresso corps.

 
                    Baby was waiting for Santa Claus
 
 
The cloakroom is based on
The outside of the heavy,
Transparent door
Of the brightly lit classroom,
And it keeps the coats
With mother’s living room
Perfume breathing through
The ripcords of each
Taupe, azure and noir
Fleece and hide.
They will wait until the
Fifteenth hour to return
To their young bodies.
 
Through the window,
A woodland scene
Untouched in the
Distant free world.
Silent and motionless
The woodland scene
Is filled with branches
Of serenity, and much
Like the rope on the hill
It is waiting for the light to change.
The light changes in the
Fifteenth hour.

 
                                        The final exodus
 
 
Allotments of stagnant summer
Dreams were fast becoming
Long summer nights
Drowned in hard liquor
By the train line,
 
And bodies swarmed
Like pirate ghost from
A charnel house.
 
Intoxicated, in dishabille,
And nesting like
Juiced aluminium
Upon a chaotic futon.