Safe House

By Jon, London


and welcome to my safe house,
an oak log,
my design for a great house.
A prototype
and it’s not without its flaws,
but if I don’t want people knocking
then it can’t have any doors.

I’m floored.
And what’s flawed is mine.
Up high in the sky, but not too high is just fine.
I love space,
hate planes,
hate lifts,
and I’ll scorch my house in making to minimise the risk
There will never be a fire.
No gas taps, no switches, no lighters,
I tire.
Am I a liar?
Did I start a fire?
Will I check to the end, or have a life I desire?

Thinking’s hard.
But it’s harder to think that not thinking things through will make the whole world shrink.
Do I mean what I say?
And do I say what I wrote?
Can we thrash it out?
please understand…grab this rope.
I can lift you up,
I can drink, we can whine,
but can you help protect the future’s sanity and mine?
And is there time?
For me and my kind?
I’m thinking not, so we adapt and pass the time.

OCD foundations, concrete feet on the ground,
No windows to see in, or to compromise sound.
No public parking space, or even a road,
No driving out backwards, JT reversing, heavy load.
No callers, no questions, no phone, no post,
No enquiries, no pressure, no danger close.
No appointments, no risk, no disappointments, no shame,
No illness, no harm, no more nails, no more pain.

Dark thoughts,
But still oozing with life.
Yeah, I’m gonna build a safe house for me, my cat and my wife.
And that’s life.

This poem is coupled with a carving that Jon sculpted. Head over to The Gallery to see his carving.

Categories: The Salon

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