Tuesday Poem

The old King’s in the nursery

counting out his babies.

The number’s always shifting,

there’s always someone missing  ̶

the books are cooked we all know that

but who was the chef

and who paid the bill?

Knuckle bones and

fingernails and

entrail stew

the old king doesn’t know what to do.

There’s salt in the wound

sweet in the sweat

and even the moon turns blue.

The old King’s in the madhouse

counting out his marbles.

The number’s always shifting

there’s always one that’s missing –

the game is rigged we all know that

but who gambled what

and who takes the prize?

Knuckle bones and

fingernails and

entrail stew

the old king doesn’t know what to do.

There’s salt in the wound

sweet in the sweat

and even the moon turns blue.

The old King limps through his nightmares

counting out his enemies.

The number’s always shifting

there’s always one that’s missing –

a flicker of curtain

a sliver of knife.

His son drools

his head as big as the moon

but never quite blue enough.

The old King doesn’t know what to do –

and we all know that. 

Catherine Bateson, 2013

Another from the mysterious fantasy verse novel that (only sometimes) has a life of its own. I think this poem was more than a little inspired by reading Bring Out the Bodies by Hilary Mantel which made me think of the street rhymes that royalty and state matters used to engender. What is today's equivalent?

Have a wander through more Tuesday poems, starting with the featured poem on the Tuesday Poem blog.