Alexander Downie Poems

I'm gonna create some anarchy in my backyard, prune a petunia or two,
pogo down to the end of the path and drool on my own fecking shoe.
I may be the getting on a bit in life but me oleanders are doing fine.
No holiday in the sun for me, I gotta do bondage with an unruly vine.
...

If you need a friend, I will stand over you strong and never bow.
If arrows pierce your heart, I will close angels wings around your soul.
If you need words to comfort or advise you, I will be your shaman.
If you wish to confess, I will be your priest.
...

Time is running past me at a rampant speed,
too many things to do and not enough, , , , , time.
Time is hitting me up with stress, woe and worry,
not enough time now and far too much hurry.
...

There was this moon and it stood over me, lurking and glinting in deception.
Standing alone I stared at its evil grin and began to ponder its powers.
I cowered a bit at the thought of its silver rays penetrating my skin.
Moons can pull oceans, ripping rising tides and ground lost ships in sand.
...

It is easy to cry in the Glasgow rain, people look down at rain soaked feet,
you can spread your arms, raise a face to the sky and wash away salty tears.
It is easy to let tears become another raindropp falling to a cobbled road,
to claim this city for your own, while rain pours and folk shelter in shop doors.
...

You want to be a violin player but a cello is more your style,
an LA lady with a heart lost in France, turning heads with just a smile.
You want to dance flamenco but you rock too much to care,
kick off stilettos on a beach, turn it up and get sand in your hair.
...

It comes in the night a bright white blanket dusted with orange street lights
so perfect in its complicity covering grime, holes, cracks and wishes.
The crisp night air freezes tears on cheeks before a gloveless hand can wipe
and while a city sleeps soft North winds make deft drifts along empty streets.
...

In this crystal globe a gift, broken red shards of pain for your ease,
Wrenched from a body weak with destruction, no longer willing to believe.
I can see right through to a violent flow of anguish, your hurt runs red in my hand.
In delicate glistening glass I witness your breaking, “look deep, you cannot touch”,
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There is a saying y’all know down Tejas way,
when yer knockin boots, it’s a good ole day.
Hand stitched rawhide and classic country songs,
when your knocking boots hard, it can’t be wrong.
...

The vultures are circling in crimson skies of hate,
for the slightest dying of wretched resolve they wait.
They look to each other, who'll first the carcass pounce,
a gluttonous grimy greed, scared to miss a failing flesh ounce.
...