Stub
I keep it behind my earLike an old-fashioned bookie,
Ready to lick into action
When the odds stack up.
The I-generation scoff
When they see my point,
Mock my graphite cursor
As it divines over paper.
But I don't see a mere
Pencil, flaking like a shuttered
Seaside town in winter,
Devoid of blatant, buzzing bling.
I see a religious relic:
A splinter from the Tree
Of the Knowledge
Of Good and Evil,
A chip from the Ark,
A piece of the Cross.
My charismatic charm has H
Stamped on its body;
H is for Hope as in
A prisoner scratching
A five-bar gate of days
To freedom.
H is for Help as in
A castaway scribbling
A message on a palm
Leaf for the next tide.
H is for Humour as in
The writing on the wall -
'I have often felt
That public graffiti
Is never pretti
Especially when it's misspelt'.
When was the last time
You saw an I-phone do that?
Poetry by Christopher Fernie
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Written on 2016-09-30 at 13:53
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