A poem and a riddle

I thought you might like a change from all the frankly depressing politics with which I usually bore you.

A Poem

Like the 18:44 tortuously pulling out of Marylebone,
full of weary-workers and well-earned sighs,
its pistons whumping and clanging at uneven pace
and the odd hiss of mucous lubricant or crushed rubbish,
with shouts in the distance from fellow commuters

Like an oil-blackened veteran chainsaw sputtering to life,
banging each link through to cut hard wood,
its weight unbalancing its wielder, roaring keenly as it bites,
bucking against the hands and slowing for brief, quiet moments
to dislodge snapped twigs for kindling

Like an arid mountain avalanche would sound,
Boulders of all sizes landsliding in chaos down
Drumming the ground and quaking the earth
Deeper rumbles and higher pings,
The odd scream or mutter

So Jamie snored.

A Riddle

I writhe subterranean with my fellows through the loud black
My inner fleshiness a constant digestion of crud and hope
I’m used to fertilise the soil and promote green shoots
But myself shot or burning, I crowd nightmares.

Prizes for getting the riddle include massage point for my self esteem. Prizes for sleeping in the vicinity of Jamie include great compliance when asked to shut up, together with abject apologies come dawn.

I’m on Facebook, on Twitter or at james.lynch.staunton@gmail.com.

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