Dissecting a space, Words by Alan Whitfield

The spaces pull,
Under my skin.
No surface itches,
Drawn to the light.

Inside the whale,
Shafts of white.

A nasal breech,
stale bleach,
Industrial fridge murder.

Christmas rush hush,
long gone.
Blaming lame public,
Purchase pessimism.

And you will stay no more,
No carpet floor.
A black corner.
No longer warm.


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Rolled Gold; A Poem by Alan Whitfield


Rolled Gold

Rigid refusal,
a part not taken,
an outsider looks in,
a grand stage in the making.

4 years to form,
pulled in by captivation,
a flag a smile,
jacks untied as a nation.

A pistols the call,
some focus with hesitation,
while more strive with determination,
watching evoking mass participation.

Underdogs in disguise,
favored hero in demise,
a pin up a poster,
thousandths’ of  a second bring win closer.