Spikey Mouse Photography

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What began in 79

when your home is not
a protective shelter to dignity and heart,
where government scythes away
public voices in favour of a few,
nervous rattle of doors
closing on opportunities
for those we should cherish,
disabled now disenfranchised
workless sanctioned and berated
for just existing,
statistics and targets
media fodder,
minimum wage hunter gatherers
chasing food bank trails
as rent arrears accumulate,
things are getting brighter
economy booming,
so some say
a cautious tale of cynicism
is needed to chew on this pill
of crushed realisations,
we have awoken
but not awake

written in response to the Conservatives taking victory in the elections and Cameron claiming power again

home

mersey moonlight and shine
across the hills
to river dee,
wind whispers
in the trees and grass,
of park
and shipyard sinew,
bricks of sweat and toil,
urban sprawl,
where smugglers coins
fell to sand,
lighthouse flickers
seen by little eye,
sandstone tremors
and gentle veil of mist,
i feel home
cradled by the lake
and shivering masts
of a yachting few

Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Mersey Ferry          Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Looking at Wales through...  Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Liverpool Waterfront           Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Sailing on Marine Lake a...

Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Men of Crosby           Karen Lawrence Spikey Mouse Photography - Fort Perch Lighthouse...

all photographs copyrighted to Karen Lawrence / SpikeyMouse Photography and all images and others can be bought at

http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/karen-lawrence.html?tab=artwork

follow her on facebook https://www.facebook.com/KarenLawrencePhotography

twitter  @joefishy

blog https://karenlawrencephotography.wordpress.com/

a not so barren rock

my mersey spine
back and tail
to my wirral home,
breathing over welsh hills
with ebb n flow of dee,
ferry lights
liver city waterfront,
this place so green and urban
has a pull
that lingers
to those toiling at sea
or travelling afar,
landscape pulls you back,
thors stone
lighthouses on the shore,
sandstone peninsula
of ancient times,
from road or motorway
distinctive in it’s way
born from the hundred,
Wirral
it stands
this place
my home

Charles Bukowski – The House

THE HOUSE
from “All’s Normal Here” – 1985

They are building a house
half a block down
and I sit up here
with the shades down
listening to the sounds,
the hammers pounding in nails,
thack thack thack thack,
and then I hear birds,
and thack thack thack,
and I go to bed,
I pull the covers to my throat;
they have been building this house
for a month, and soon it will have
its people…sleeping, eating,
loving, moving around,
but somehow
now
it is not right,
there seems a madness,
men walk on top with nails
in their mouths
and I read about Castro and Cuba,
and at night I walk by
and the ribs of the house show
and inside I can see cats walking
the way cats walk,
and then a boy rides by on a bicycle
and still the house is not done
and in the morning the men
will be back
walking around on the house
with their hammers,
and it seems people should not build houses
anymore,
it seems people should not get married
anymore,
it seems people should stop working
and sit in small rooms
on 2nd floors
under electric lights without shades;
it seems there is a lot to forget
and a lot not to do,
and in drugstores, markets, bars,
the people are tired, they do not want
to move, and I stand there at night
and look through this house and the
house does not want to be built;
through its sides I can see the purple hills
and the first lights of evening,
and it is cold
and I button my coat
and I stand there looking through the house
and the cats stop and look at me
until I am embarrased
and move North up the sidewalk
where I will buy
cigarettes and beer
and return to my room.

Charles Bukowski's home DeLongpre Avenue

Charles Bukowski’s home DeLongpre Avenue

the wicked binds tightly

a house wreathed with cobwebs

and love letters turned to mud

behind unwashed curtains

and one last ticking clock,

creaking thunder and a rising breeze,

chance sat on the shoulders of the couple

who hand in hand

washed in rain,

where rings of secret words whispered,

blinked as if stardust clung to eyelids

afternoon fragrance of apples

from nearby orchard

ripe waiting to be picked

and placed in basket,

within those walls he saw them

bite flesh letting juice

run over lips as they embrace,

but they would share with a nest

of memories and swept away brutality,

no stars would shine inside,

and it would be clever to reside

with those ghosts without  rest

poem, poet, gothic

Wordle 129

 

sunday whirl

 

in lovers eyes

buttoned down eyes

struggle to open,

sunbeams poured into the bowl

milk a cold half empty vessel,

we have drained each other,

scuffed table thread scratches

did we need electric lights

or the cigarettes not lit,

crackle of another star dying,

limbs bare

outside sirens call,

no matter what others think

there where wolves in the wood

warning voices raise to the moon,

yet as frail apes

we still smoked,

coffee forgotten got drunk

mornings so hard to translate,

she wished to the height of man

and i looked down,

clutter of the everyday pushed

aside as we made love again,

and know that nature will save

us

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when the vulnerable fall

laughter in the hollow of her throat

as moon breaks the body,

ribbon eyelids flutter under kiss

his fingers touched auburn hair

that fell over sand pillows

spent and tired bones felt broken,

dreams have a bold voice

to those who need the warmth

he knelt beside with longing

for her to be more than a long rapture,

kissing her ankle

against his lips no cold tremor

she was all confession and truth to him,

her heart soft as an apricot

picked from behind a breast

he the only one,

his words of struggle

the urge to thrive and live in this world

or find solace in the next,

beyond borders of another land

she is from within

listening through ears

whispered on each morning,

after a long shower she dressed

under his gaze

sovereignty of eyes made her feel not

alone,

she had honor and resilience

no longer that awkward shy girl

from a minnesota school,

her hand felt his harden on hers

to be there farewell until later,

she felt no shock on leaving the house

no irony or weariness

bag slung over shoulder

walking to the bus,

catching smiles of men who wanted to

possess,

a word she heard that made her smile

infidels

she was now a vessel

returning to the mall

that very mall she worked a beauty salon

for minimum wage,

today would be her immortal day

memory and history would find a place

for her,

her soul had a message to be given to the

world,

and with a single bomb she would carry it

105

 

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This topic is difficult and in somber mood has to be aired that any country terrorism can come from any angle not just foreigners and immigrants as some areas of the media like to point out, sometimes as seen here in England it is the young and impressionable no job or low income find they have become fed up and to want act , react against what they see is against them be it family or government and others can prey on them influence them not saying this happens in all cases as you have extremists everywhere in religion or politics the thing is the message has to be conveyed that we are community all of us the world has shrunk and we must care more to prevent such horrific acts of mindful violence it sounds simplistic but is there a perfect answer i hope so one day

union horses on the interstate

behind hood and dashboard

his mind with hers

still rested in the ninth house,

blacktop travelling at interstate speed,

control firm,

music loud not slight,

with a long sigh pressed her head against

him,

often as companions traveled

now had a quest,

possessions as much as they where

poured into the trunk to be sorted on

arrival,

unwind as you will from society,

be bold in the colors

your heart has started to wear,

those who are skeptical

will not understand,

that beyond that frontal lobe threshold

lies a dense form

filled with thought and the saturate

of free will,

no alexander sword could cut

the feeling

each blow opposed,

red paint reflects those horses and riders

galloping along side with defined stride,

the future lies in the echoes

of the smile

104

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