Wednesday, 19 November 2014

The Hands of Power









She had a pair of hands -
she kept them in a box,
the hands were very strong,
she secured them with locks.
But when she took them out
she would play with them at length,
feel their capabilities,
marvel at their strength.
The hands in turn were kind,
they would stroke her in the sun,
flitter on her clitoris,
quickly make her come.

But time passes feelings change,
she grew weary of this toy,
she looked for different pleasures,
sought fruits forbidden to enjoy.
So she took her pair of hands
and she placed them in their keep,
she never said 'farewell, adieu'
she just left them there to sleep.
And in the darkness of their box
the hands grew flabby, limp and pale,
the fingers probed to find the locks,
they ached and twisted in their jail.

She had some guests for dinner,
they spoke of this and talked of that
and as the wine flowed copiously
so lewdness entered in their chat.
"I had a secret love" she said
to a room of widening eyes,
"a pair of hands - and not my own
- that kept me satisfied".
"Who was this love?"
they begged to know,
Was he handsome, was he tall,
was it someone known to them?
Quickly now she must tell all.
She put her finger to her lips,
she left the company,
when she returned the air was thick,
all eyes watched on excitedly.

Her rusty keys were like a jailor's,
she forced and turned the aging clasps,
within the box the hands were flexing,
exercising their mighty grasp.
The lid came up and there they were,
her mouth dropped open at the sight,
instead of tanned and muscled hands,
these looked fat and weak and white.
Nobody spoke, nobody moved,
each beating heart they all could hear,
she touched the hands: they sprang to life;
the watching group recoiled in fear.
They moved as one straight up her arms,
embraced together round her throat,
the company screamed and fell apart,
their hostess rolled her eyes and choked.
She crashed across the crockery,
the hedonists with fright had fled,
the hands squeezed out her gasping life
and left her on the table dead!

Now you may take a point of view,
with vice like hands around her neck,
she died from vice, as addicts do:
I say she died for her neglect.
A good thing left will turn to bad,
the sweetness soons begins to sour,
the strength of love corrupted
turns to evil in....the Hands of Power!



c. Marc Woodward

Monday, 10 November 2014

Poppies



If poppies grew uncontrolled
and choking not on wasteland
but on the walls, doors, machinery
of armaments factories;
not in a fake haemorrhage 
around historic buildings
but on the benches of parliaments;
if they crowded into disuse such places 
where wars are dreamt and manufactured,
then there would be no need
to stand up straight,
pin scarlet paper on our chests,
listen to politicians sermonise 
- then watch those 
same swift hypocrites forget.


 

Published 11/11/14 at http://poetry-24.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/poppies.html