Came to disappear

More pain in her heart than a bomb over Japan.
She clicks her heels, but nothing happens.
More alone than home.
She darts into the traffic.
Proudly defiant, like rhinos on the Serengeti.
This was her town, but from it now she runs.
Her tears falling like skyscrapers.
Down into the rain and the black streets of London.
That tries to coil around her feet.
The slinking snake of society.
She runs out.
Down.
Then up.
Onto the lampposts until they change to trees.
And she feels the nature breathe back within.
The racing rats she leaves behind.
Throwing her phone and her tolerance into the trash as she departs.
This was never for her.
She comes now, out into the greens and browns that match her eyes.
Seeing the vista swim into view like a quiet paradise.
She comes here, to disappear.
She comes to survive.

30/11/202224/05/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: animals, city, escapeTags: animals, art, bombs, escape, eyes, heels, london, nature, poem, Poetry, rhino, running, skyscraper Leave a comment

Tender, the grass of war

A bloody dust covers the eyes of the onlookers.
The voyeurs of life’s sad pageant.
Cattled and rattled they sing the song of war.
A sweet lullaby to mark their intent.
The flag sticks in a body not long departed.
Stretched and lined like the marks of policies.
The bow broke and spilled them into the trenches.
Dirtied their bones and wet the bed.
What cared for them as their moon-skulls broke?
Separated out into the dark sea of regret.
Scaring away the tigers.
Cutting out and counting down.
Piece by piece we cut away the fabric of life.
Stitched into a patchwork of redesign.
Peace and thoughts maligned.
Meet me in the sandbox, the playground, the gulf.
Help me destroy the things I do not understand.
Recess, regress. God bless this mess.
A boy lost in a man’s disappearing world.

18/07/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: fight, war, youthTags: art, battle, blood, bombs, bones, conflict, drones, fight, flag, poem, Poetry, PTSD, refugee, terrorism, trenches, war, WW2, youth 6 Comments

Indignities of war

Now the world sounds better without you.
The sound of rust and avoidance.
And the chatter of indifference.
A pin of change, held in thy hand.
Explosions in their eyes, are merely the dying stars of hope.
As they drop bombs on everything you see.
All that once glittered was sold.
Packaged and peeled like your skin on the cross.
And we taste the regret each day.
And we forget each pain and stay,
Locked in a world of static.
Explaining each miracle away.
It once felt like home.
Until the sands rose and the waters melted.
And we looked once more in the back of our skulls.
Picking away at you on the roof of our mouths.
The tourniquets we place over the lands now fray.
The crumble and crack of reason.
The pain is the only thing we’re happy to hear.
As we martyr those who walk your walk.
And silence those, with that familiar talk.
Of love.

14/07/202112/07/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: jesus, love, warTags: ariplane, art, bombs, change, cross, crucifiction, home, hope, hurt, jesus, land, martyr, miracle, pain, poem, Poetry, sky, strike, war 6 Comments