Paul Brookes: Three Poems

Ask That Librarian Of The Lost

Ask them if they can lose something you found,
a memory perhaps, a hanger on,
that thing that glues, sticks, grips, will not let go,
what you cannot forget, the wound, the hurt,
a betrayal that deepens in your skin.
an unseen wound that winds worries the nerve

twists the windlass, always tightens nagged nerve,
Ask official to get rid of what you found,
can they dig it out of your bones and skin,
can they lose it on this damned track your on,
how to accept the pain and wounded hurt,
how to free it up, loose its hold, let go.

The librarian unsorts what must go,
declassifies, takes pressure off ragged nerves
There is a high cost, demands for payment hurt
with menaces as happens to all found
Pending. They discuss alternatives on,
examining the wound under your skin.

Say the damage deepens under your skin,
everytime, you refuse to let go,
to forgive the one who you dwell upon,
you are the one lost, who lacks the nerve,
to remove the glue, your grip on the found,
you encourage the pain, foster the hurt

you tighten the windlass, to speed your hurt,
injure your own bones beneath your skin,
cannot forgive gullibility found
there, a weakness you cannot accept, let go,
your better person would have the nerve,
to send pain on its way, let it go on

without you, take another path to go on,
the broken promiser wins all times you hurt.
This is not psychobabble, have you nerve?
I'm reclassifying your emotions skin.
Teaching how to heal yourself as you go.
You were lost and in pain, now you are found.

Librarian's nerve, in goading me on
I don't feel that found, I can still sense hurt
but it's lifting skin healing, on I go.

Our Wombwell 

Offer sugar to new incomers
Use the Polish supermarket.
Register gypsies trot the roads
Wild fires burn stolen possessions
Or neighbours offer help easily.
Mark discarded sofas and fridges
Blocking ash paths and throughways
Wating for scrapmen to collect.
Elderly bent forward push trollies uphill.
Log your bet at the betting shops.
Look at your kite after a hot Turkish shave

The Fall 
We will fall, perhaps we will float. The fall
is easy, landings the hard bit. Tumble
just right. Before we go in gusty squall.
this green mask drops, reveals colour to all,
we can no longer shield mam from trouble.
we will fall, perhaps we will float. The fall
decided by season's gust great or small
Some will be blown far, others snuggle
just right. Before we go in gusty squall
we see some last year's brood crushed by footfall.
others sucked up into darkness crumble.
We will fall, perhaps we will float. The fall
we never know when, only in cold call
no choice but to leave mam without struggle,
just right. Before we go in gusty squall
future on stone, in earth after freefall.
Perhaps we will be mams come full circle 
We will fall, perhaps we will float. The fall
just right. Before we go in gusty squall.

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