A Place Unfound, by Darren Oxton Subscribe to rss feed for Darren Oxton

....His eyes nagged, 
pulling tight knots around the edges, 
blood red, and encrusted with last months flakey, 
yellow/green lack of sleep. 

His vision, fogged by the blots 
of sun-made ink, momentarily blinding his way, 
suddenly clears, 
unveiling the land before him.

His legs ached. 
How far had he walked? Crawled? 
So far it seemed, but a familiar 
feeling of de ja vu, forever haunting him.

His home in Pristina, was gone. 
Driven to the hills, rounded like cattle, 
there had been four familiars first, 
now only one.

His destination-the border
-no stopping along the way, 
a cog in the machine of a million loose 
parts displaced, forced, discarded.  

Her voice sang in the wind, 
whispering delights, words in the night, 
but like the Danish Prince 
all he had were words, words, words.

His thoughts passed to the new century, 
so little difference from the last, 
atrocities would follow them from the past, 
till the last.

He was lucky though. 
The genocide behind him, 
but how ironic that he had survived, 
to face a barren wasteland of nothingness.

        Out of place, and touch, 
        societies lowest form of muck, 
        unwanted, and tarnished, 
        a leech to the state who's blood he would suck.

          
          *******


My father wanted me to be 
successful in life, 
to live the dream, travel the world, 
rake in the cash, then settle with a wife,

A man of the fields 
in which his body lay to rot, 
amidst the piles of human rubble, 
stacked lifeless and forgotten, a dictators lot,

Those distorted images link together 
from one to the next, 
unreal, unfamiliar to his son
-no longer the boy-lost, unkempt, vexed.

Bavarian hills, un-sheltered and unwelcoming, 
had pushed me onward, with the rest, 
in a dreamy state, 
he hoped for the best.


          *******


Her constant cross dangled 
freely from around her neck, 
dressed in gods finest black and white garb, 
she leaned, offering soup in a cup.  

The Parisian streets 
were the hardest of homes. 
In the morning, smog would lace the cities heart, 
like cancer, a thick smoke on lungs,

In the shadow of the steel tower, 
like a withered, foreign flower, 
feeding off the waste, 
compost of the 'locals', a scar on their face.


          *******


I marvelled at the beast, 
cutting through the clouds, 
a brilliant white Pterodactyl, bringing home the rich, 
a superb anglo-french bitch,

What a pity sometime after! 
That marvel, split apart, 
as the rich blew up in flames, 
on an exiles runway, shocking French hearts,

The dream was over, 
confined to the past, 
as they rounded them up once more, 
the cattle, this port would be his last.


          *******


Acorns, lie scattered, 
brown and hollow, for autumns end 
is soon to come, cloudy skies 
masking the cooling sun,

The squirrel picks and nibbles, 
occasionally pausing, 
glancing about its surroundings, 
then continues,

A million dead leaves, 
cover the cheap tarmac 
in a thick winter blanket, 
rusty and rotting, unnoticed by many,

As the fog rolls in, 
like the lonely tumble-weed twirling 
across the barren track of an old western film, 
minus John Wayne, 

Last nights rain maintains its legacy, 
fragmented, hanging from the trees, 
thick crystal drops
-the melancholic tears of nature, 

It is quiet now. 
The birds can just about be heard, 
but seem tired and weary, 
ready to migrate perhaps, on their own journey,


          *******


A winter break, from the cityscape, 
three months in the carribean,
Oh, but a wishful thought! 
No such hopes with money so fraught, 

Beneath the oppressive grey clouds, 
a man in the street 
plays music on his violin, 
but nobody seems to put in,

No coins of change for him, 
as the frost bites, 
thinly veiled at his icicle laden beard, 
some east European tune echoing the ignorant streets.

Figures pass busily on their way, 
everyday, too focussed and distant 
to comment or say anything, 
a distracted societies day.

Plastic bags full to the brim, 
overloaded with pointless 
commercial waste. 
Here today gone tomorrow.

How quickly they forget! 
Nothing but a fad, phoney reality, 
unreal yet unseen by most, 
the haunting of a foreign ghost, 

The tramp lies beneath a brown cotton bag, 
clothes all torn, dressed in rags. 
No room at the inn for him, 
just a police tag, 

Eyes that have seen many 
a hard cold winter come and go, 
sleeping the nights on benches 
decorated with snow.

His cheeks glow red, 
the only colour he possesses, 
as the Cheshire toffs stroll by 
in their mink coats and upper-class dresses.

Two men on ladders attempt to erect a sign. 
'Merry Christmas' it reads. 
Nobody even realises. 
What's so merry anyway? 

Its just the same as any other day. 
Good will to all men, 
then back into the unconcerned 
discord of routine daily life. 

While the toffs return 
to the role of house wife. 
A tangerine sun sprinkles a faint 
warmth upon the, dew coated, spring lawns. 

Bright yellow trumpets 
cutting through the ground, 
of the busy old circle 
where the cars all spin around. 

This is the place I now call home, 
but a shadow I've become of the man 
I had once known, God Save the Queen, 
he is all alone.

Far away, the fond hills of my blood rebuild, 
out of time but not out of mind, 
unable to return, 
for now he's a refugee standing in line.

A relic, misplaced, forgotten, 
without voice, confined to a life 
of defeat and despair, a fish out of water, 
for whom no-one dare care...
Posted: 2009-12-18 01:04:17 UTC

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