Skip to content

Honesty Box

Interesting poem by Michele that asks some intriguing questions

Michele D'Acosta

Hold 1

accomplish my dreams?

on my
at loggerheads.

If when walking on the Avenue Of The Future,
I should happen to encounter
a fortune teller

who tells me: “You will mend your luck
when you turn back the clock.”

Will I deposit my gratitude
in the honesty box?

Or will I forge on ahead
weighed down by

View original post

Twentieth Century Spiders

Come see black heart cages, wrought iron soul.
Dreams dealt in low light, outside they fall.
The last welcome refuge for the lost.

Shadow soaked corners, vodka sipped neat
Back combed for hours, eyes circled jet
A weekend home for the meek.

Here come the dancers, freed up from thought.
Smiles on set faces, bad bringers of light.
A baggy invasion begins.

Shrinking to margins, lost to middle age.
Foot soldiers falling, tending the graves.
A defeated generation retreats.


A hard rustling dance through the sea pebble undergrowth
takes me to shore where driftwood dreams gather.
Lighthouse stands bashful, waiting for darkness to
unveil its party piece and delight the night sky.

A lone soul, I dodge spray sent taunting by wind and tide.
All this is mine. A bleak, broken outpost where
even gulls fight the gusts.

I feel the silence inside despite surrounding sound
that won’t be quietened. A solitary reward in
a spit without friends.

The storm comes in like a bar room brawl.
Flailing, falling hard against the condemned land.
And then through the downpour they come
bent low against the deluge.


This town of kings says no
to royal proclamations and the order of things.
This city of East says no
to ungodly monarchs and dearly bought peace.

This North Eastern target says no
to hell fire death dropping and silence for years.
This historic port says no
to Icelandic gunboats and sea taking all.

This cultured gem says no
to Southern sneers and put down whispers within.
This lonely outpost says no
to taking us lightly and ignoring our worth.

This mouthy upstart says yes
to dishing out punches and earning a gold.
This feisty contender says yes
to delighting the watching world by showing our best.

Kicking Off

Dean hits the turf with a thud like a cannonball
taking out turrets and towers.
Jumps to his feet with intent which is murderous.
Hand makes a fist and he glowers.

Dave shouts “come on!” cos he’s not for bottling it
whether in war or in love.
Palms on Dean’s chest show he won’t take a backward step
now that a push comes to shove.

The man in black whistles hard, holds up coloured cards.
It’s time for him to intervene.
But officialdom’s man can’t part the warriors.
A crowd gathers to witness the scene.

Prize fight it ain’t, like hippos on a skating rink
They slide as they grapple in mud.
A real slap knocks false teeth out on the centre spot
To Dave it still counts as first blood.

Circles his prey like a tanker with time to kill
hoping to make his efforts pay
But here comes the law and they’ve ruined his break
So it’s time that they all ran away

For Dave and for Dean it’s a regular scene
So their bust up comes as no shock
They’ll be back again with frustration to expend
Each Sunday at eleven o clock.

Open necked shirt

Winter day like Christmas for the lads
with full pockets and time running out
‘til the swells rise again and the ice coat embraces

souls fearing the whisper that lures
men to shadow grey depths to
lie in anguished sleep as fish pick at bones.

Measure for blues and surge on to Rayners.
Door creaks ‘gainst the tide rushing in
to swallow evil thoughts like a whale taking Jonah.

An afternoon drowned in beery reminder
of life’s little wins and defeats
bitter blows met with what felt like honour.

As winter’s night storms arrive and fists
flail their frustration an icy blast
tells of days stretched before them.

The walk of once more condemned men
into summoning winds is unbuttoned
defiance in the face of death’s beckoning.

Forgotten Town

Forgotten Town

Fire washes through battered streets made
rubble. Death strides from home to home
enjoying easy pickings amidst the cacophony.

The killing rain falls until the dawn
whispers. Smoke blackened refugees pick
at debris mountains hoping for salvation.

As dust covered bodies are unearthed
mothers weep. The pit swallows the
dead and takes their very existence.