The Secret
(listen to the poem, read by Diane R. Wiener)
Beyond the book ends of conversation
Well mannered, gentle in ebb and flow
Skeletons, holed-up in hard to reach cupboards
Laugh at their master’s voice
On the outside all seems middled
Straight lines with no kinks
Vanilla lives where only the garbage stinks
But not far from the guarded gates of insipia
Just below the waterline of words
There is ugliness, there are dirty hands
For we all bury secrets in the quiet of the night
Fearful of the day our deeds may come to light
For some, the secret is monstrous
A chamber of horrors, with no visitors bar a penitent priest
But for most of us the demon is benign
A wriggly, niggly thing without teeth or claws
Yet, we tremble, wait for the guilty finger to settle
And wide-eyed vultures to pick at our mettle
Till the unmentionable is mentioned, the hidden revealed
Then wives cry, sons disappoint, friends lower their eyes
But who is intact, who amongst can claim Lincoln’s truth
Or Jesus’ perfect divinity, not one of us
For we all bury secrets in the quiet of the night
Fearful of the day our deeds may come to light
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Two Rissoles on a Plate
(listen to the poem, read by Diane R. Wiener)
Two rissoles on a plate
They are the two most things I hate
Each Saturday when served, I curse the moment
They were lightly floured, patted on the head
Dragged around a frying pan, whilst my thumb and finger bled
And the two hours it took to mishape them into existence
When I could have saved the planet, or saved my soul
I chose with breadcrumbs to carpet bomb the kitchen
Self-harm with a peeler, go big on the bitchin’
Oh, where is the delightful ping of microwave?
Snip of packet, quiet opening of tin?
Why does my sometime better half
Put me through this bloody cooking thing!
It’s not that I’m lazy, just bored I guess
For I don’t cook from the heart, just make a freakin’ mess
Twenty-three wash-ups later, spooned-out, mashed with a fork
I call to table my yoga, yoghurt loving dearest
And soon we swoon in patty heaven, for they taste surprisingly good
Though more oft than not, a little burnt under the hood
But as one brought up on tinned peaches, everything cremated
I’m totally cool with e numbers and additives
For my mum made ninety, without broccoli or laxatives
Oh, where is the man at the door with my curry?
Can’t we this Saturday put on some weight?
No, she says, and an unhealthy death is all I can hope for
That’s my only escape from two rissoles on a plate
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About the Author
From the UK, Mark Niedzwiedz is a professional composer and lyricist, which helps bring rhythm and musicality to his poetry. Lyric writing may pave the way for penning poetry, but Mark is well aware that song lyrics and poetry most of the time are at best distant cousins. Mark has his own take on the world and though life is a serious business, his poems are often lightened–or darkened–with humour and sometimes the mysterious. Poetry is a relatively new venture for Mark and with that comes the usual insecurity about whether or not his poems are any good, but publication does wonders for self-doubt!