All poems by M. Hanna 

Ruins

I have always missed you

Through the good times and bad

I wished you were there

A shepherd and crook

I left the track

Veered from the path

And now I can’t hear your voice

Just silence, desolation

I am despair

Turmoil consumes me

My inadequacies a stain

A harbourer of sin and

Unadulterated pain

And when the time comes

For God’s eternal embrace

I pray you’ll be there

To guide me.

This life has been hardship

And constant remorse

I’m weak, soulless, lonely

Ravaged and wounded

The gifts I’ve been given

Are like ruins

I am toxic

Like mould on bread

The gifts I’ve been given

Are like ruins

Worry

The constant fight; devil’s delight. I am a slave. My anxiety creeps, afore and post sleep; my mind the demon’s playground. I am shattered, lost, disrupted; alone, deplete, disgusted; my brain an enemy within.

My trouble, my shame, my spectre; my punishing internal lecture…I am destroyed. With peace comes the price, crippling satanic device; fear, the true aggressor. My burden drains and weakens; my worth it sullies, cheapens; a desperate and bitter sin.

Darkness

I am darkness. I am the anvil in the clouds preparing to precipitate, laden with tiny shards of angst to rain down on those below me. I am the creator of desolation, of travesty and doom; a dark spirit in a glowing orb of vibrant life.

My narrow feet tread a lonely path, like razors carving through a sweet, cushioned mossy bed. The canopy above, like my devilled arms blocking the sun, creating darkness where there should be light. I am not free. I am misery incarnate.

This is my putrid skill. A savagely destructive force with a treacherous voracity to undermine and complicate, to ravage and sow misery and pain. I am a reflection of what I think of myself.

I am shame, a vile interpretation of what I should have been. A study of misunderstanding, of broken dreams and shallow promises.

I am darkness.

I am dead.

The Tragedy of Nigel

That evening it had worked alright,

A standard journey, Friday night,

Through late night rain then morning bright,

His limousine.

Within its confines quite cocooned ,

While from its windows breakbeats boomed,

And passing girls just stared and swooned,

He’s Steve McQueen.

Out through the busy city streets,

While sporting shades and stay-press pleats,

He headed back to crispy sheets,

To lay his head.

But on the way hunger prevailed,

The journey fleetingly curtailed,

And breakfast he so swiftly nailed,

 His hunger fed.

And from his wallet payment drew,

A folded tenner neat and new,

He swallowed back a lukewarm brew,

And left his seat.

As he emerged from the canteen,

Abrupt the smell of gasoline,

And then the most explosive scene,

Burnt metal sheet.

For somewhere in the cables fired,

A spark from something wrongly wired,

And smouldered while the engine, tired,

Was left to rest.

And fire had then begun to spread,

From engine straight to chassis bed,

And through the pipe the fuel tank fed,

Cardiac arrest!

And in the flames an outline faint,

A metal carcass stripped of paint,

So with its maker reacquaint,

In motor heaven.

Inferno triumphed at such a pace,

The headlights, grill, a withered face,

And to its final resting place,

His TR7.

Tube Ride

Let your mind wander as the rolling stock goes by

And daydream of the girl you saw and think she caught your eye

The throngs appear and then they’re gone, amidst the click and clack

They fill the empty platform as they stare down at the track

The signs aglow up overhead, the timer reaches nought

You mind the gap and sit down with the bag of things you bought

The cabin shrill and cramped, the lights flicker dark then bright

Silence prevails amid strangers in the artificial night

The journey loud and toiled, the guard uniformed and brash

What seems like an eternity is over in a flash

Within the bounds of London, it’s easy here to roam

And when you’re feeling weary, just take a tube ride home

Shere Woods

Within the walls of The Olde White Horse,

On a cold November night,

The rambling utterings I can endorse,

Of a patron and his plight,

His woeful air I had disregarded,

Of his voice emanating from the warm firelight.

With several drinks consumed thus far,

His sorrow illuminated,

By contrast his life a fading star,

The end initiated,

While friends made light his sorry state,

His wayward mind no more placated.

Come morning with its bitter hue,

And trees so white and frosted,

Amidst Shere woods a daybreak new,

Serenity accosted,

And so the words last night he spoke,

Were proof that he had clearly lost it.

For in the cold, atop the hill,

His body silhouetted,

No severed vein, no final pill,

The hangman’s noose indebted,

His friends, their guilt so bearing down,

Would force them never to forget it.

Shades of Grey

It’s true I’ve heard the words you spoke yet in my mind I falter,

Your explanation rambling, the haze is hard to alter,

If clear direction your intent your phrasing’s in contention,

My brain in inconclusiveness brings clarity prevention,

It seems you feel that what you’ve said has substance and true meaning,

The knowledge you think that you’ve passed has left me with the feeling,

That you are quite unsure yourself of what you are relaying,

Or precision of your sentiments no scrutiny you’re paying,

You point and indicate using random gesticulations,

Yet still I cannot understand your strange interpretations,

Of subject matter quite complex some guidance a requirement,

I’d like to understand this stuff before I reach retirement,

For years I have chastised myself for scanty comprehension,

Yet others now speak of your skill for nurturing their tension,

Our heads are now filled full of items devoid of refinement,

And none of us can manage to bring it into alignment,

And now we go around the place inept at a decision,

We’re like some flocking sparrows heading for a mass collision,

I think you’ll find that your demeanour stems from your past hist’ry,

Habitual descriptions at the heart of every myst’ry,

And that’s why I’ve got wise and disregard the words you say,

For nothing’s black and white it’s just a million shades of grey.

Twelve

It’s that bird on Generation Game

All excitement and flair

And her fella all trussed up

(In his mind, debonair)

He’s salt of the earth

She’s a gem in the rough

Their tat designs matching 

Their voices quite gruff

She’s half steel, half giggly 

He’s grabbing her hand

In the Ford on their way down

Their favourite band

He’s got them booked in at

The Dog and the Duck

When filming’s concluded

They’ll head there to fuck

And clear out the mini bar

And trawl through room service

While he rubs his hands 

Over all of her curves, it’s

A foregone conclusion 

Once their hand has been dealt

And recited the things on the

Conveyor belt

A tea set, a boat

And a cuddly toy

That realistic model

Of Leonard Nimoy

Some saucy silk lingerie

He’s licking his lips

An electrical blanket

They’ve remembered all six!

A fondue, a face mask

A week at a spa

A random selection

An unhinged bazaar

Retrieving the last three

Through memories they delve

And that’s why this poem

Is simply called twelve.

House Arrest

It’s like we’ve been incarcerated

Locked up in our homes

Freedom’s just so antiquated

Police have turned to drones

To keep us all in lockdown baby

Under house arrest

My whole career reduced to sitting

In my pants and vest

Alcohol and biscuit intake

Ramped up to the max

Diet, not the virus now

Will stop me in my tracks

The boredom’s coursing through my mind

To this I can attest

There’s no way out of lockdown baby

Under house arrest

Virus

Stuck in lockdown, mind in meltdown

Skype calls, night falls, boxers, dressing gown

No more social, that’s the height of it

Warned off sparking a Marlboro light and it

Makes me cranky, my barnet’s manky

Bearded, trapped like some cornered Banksy

Feeling jaded, overrated

The taste of freedom anticipated

Coronavirus, could our bosses fire us?

Daytime T.V., Miley Cyrus

Careless sneeze in the queue at Co-op

Kid on skateboard pulls tricks, show off

One in, one out, bread aisle dances

Low on booze, I’ll take my chances

Death toll rises, economic crisis

No more chat ‘bout Brexit, ISIS

Beers are cooling, done home schooling

Won’t be long now, who you fooling?

Food addiction, become quite devout

I’m getting fat, I need to get out!

Skinny Jeans

Ooooh my trousers are irrefutably tight

It’s like they’re sprayed on, or a trick of the light

They inhibit flow and my knees won’t bend

All this discomfort to follow a trend

I’m amazed how I got them over my calf

When I sit in a chair they just cut me in half

I look like a frogman on a night on the town

With over-sized feet and a permanent frown

They make each leg look like a malnourished stick

I can’t even run or take a goal kick

They make me robotic, don’t stand there and watch

It’s only because they’re tight round the crotch

Is this what it’s like being a fashionable Goth?

Surely they could add some extra cloth?

I’m not one for pain or sadistic attire

These trousers seem to make my voice a bit higher

In dim light it looks like my legs are undressed

Yet my waistband and thighs feel bloated and pressed

I daren’t even breathe or hiccup or cough

And when the day’s done I don’t think they’ll come off

The Festival

My desire to traverse across this land

To ingest the sound of an indie band

To let the chords and tune osmose

Through ears and body and through my toes

Has left me with some bitter thrills

The camping site with drink and pills

And drunkards reeling to and fro

Looking for some place to go

And put their colons to good use

That hemp has somehow rendered loose

And made me wish I’d donned my welly

Because they overfilled their belly

So as the anthems singing out

Are drowning out my futile shout

I wonder why we endure this

As we all stand in beer and piss

And mud that’s halfway up my calf

In depths of two feet and a half

I sigh and wonder with sodden sock

Was this the dream borne from Woodstock?

Addict

If you fly to the moon on the edge of a spoon

And your days are simply inter-stellar

If your field of vision only gives you permission

To view the world like Barbarella

If your idea of a laugh costs two score and a half

And your tramlines don’t support any stock

If you enjoy your hits with no musical bits

And your stash is hidden inside your sock

If your memory’s shot and you’re feeling quite hot

And your heart’s beating like Ringo Star

If your brain’s shorting out and you’ve serious doubt

That your life can be quite this bizarre

If you’re arm’s in a mess and you’re in some distress

And the outcome is hard to predict

If your supply’s getting short and you need to abort

Then it’s clear you’re some kind of addict.

Crisis at the Bank

Crisis at the bank

The economy just sank

Bankers in remorse

The E.U. in divorce

I’m living in a box

Holes in both my socks

Even Paul McKenna

Can’t magic up a tenner

The problem so we’re told

They’ve sold off all the gold

We’ll help you if you’re Greek

Though our deficit is bleak

So when I rest my head

Knowing industry is dead

I’ll dream of times gone by

When I wore a shirt and tie

And if things go too far

And I’m forced to sell the car

I’ll save up every penny

And move to Abergavenny

Binge Drinkers

Don’t despise us, like unruly despots

We’re merely a product of an offer on shots

We’ve been in the pub since just after noon

And it’s reaching the time when we wither and swoon

We’re fighters and slags and underage kids

And middle-aged men whose lives hit the skids

We’ll drink to excess and step out of line

Then pretend we don’t do this all of the time

But society forgive us our irritating ways

There are worse things that we could do with our days

This nation was built by good drinkers no less

With continued support by the great NHS