poemcat

Rats

2011-06-06T19:44:00.003+01:00

The walls seem darker this morning, they’re insolent and beige. I’ve tried to make them yellow but the government issue paint is thin and refuses to cover the layers of grease and cracked grime.
Yesterday, I found an old mirror. It was against the bins, under cardboard soaked with stale lager and vomit. I might have missed it too, but for the sunlight. Well hardly that, its dull red glow lifts your skin, but it is hardly sun or light. Still, there was the tiniest slither of shininess beneath the rotting cardboard and rags, and there it was, my beautiful mirror; its stucco bronze angels spattered with magnolia and only a little crazed.
It’s the rats that really get to me. Several of them have been hiding in the roof space. I’ve heard their shrieks. Sobia says they’re harmless. She believes them to be supremely intelligent and spends many hours talking about her research. She keeps the clean kind in her bedroom. Specially refined white rats, trained to perform. I can’t like them; even in their glazed pink eyes there is a hint of rebellion.
Oh they perform, they find the treat at the end of the maze or learn how to unlock the door but don’t imagine they don’t shiver with thinly veiled contempt. They watch, they wait and we are their natural enemy? You see it going through their minds. Teach us, teach us all you know, and we will tell our black and brown brothers. And now we know there are treats and now we can open doors.
Sobia is special; she wears silk and sips her drinks slowly in case it should make her fat. She uses henna to paint her pale skin like an Indian bride. She has dark hair that falls in coils about her shoulders and eyes of violet and gold. Every contour of her body is svelte, her movements precise yet fluid. She loves her rats. They sleep in the crook of her arm on red satin pillows. They have an aura of superiority. Such rats will never take poison; they are too wise.
Sobia has decided to become a vegetarian; she can’t imagine how she could ever have eaten meat. The smell sickens her; she threw away the grill pan and with it our meagre ration of four crisp pieces of bacon. We have no pasta and the rice, which is damp, is slowly being consumed by grey mould.
I had to wait a whole week for the bacon, dreaming of it, my mouth running dry with desire. Even knowing it would be cold and solidly greasy, I tried to retrieve it. I would’ve eaten it, even smelling as it did of sickly damp paper and tealeaves, but the rats got there first.
It’s all to do with the rats I suspect; they’re becoming more confident. They tap on the pipes all night. A kind of code I think. They’ve infiltrated the kitchen. The fridge door has been opened and the butter mauled. The last of the cereal is nibbled. I had to fight them for crumbs and sustained a small bite for my pains, the wound weeps and the skin throbs, angry, red.
Today the government announced an end to milk supplies. The smog has killed all but a few cows. The farmers rioted because the rest were taken from them and slaughtered for meat. Their land has been seized by the state. We watched the shootings on the plasma over the wreck. These screens have been placed in each city and town to inform the public of new prohibitions - and the consequences of disobedience.
Sobia is teaching her rats to obey her commands; they bring her small pieces of jewellery from the other flats, nothing that will be noticed, but still, it is stealing.
I walked past a corpse yesterday on my way to the food queues. It drew my attention because this thing had once been human. There were aspects which could not be denied, like its shape and scale, but in most respects it was unrecognisable; the colour and stench bringing both the desire to run and the compulsion to stay and see an unimaginable truth. Man’s destiny; for though we choose to close our eyes, this is where we all head, even Sobia, blackened, stinking - food for rats.
The noises in the pipes were louder last night and the air smelt sulphurous. I coughed blood; it left a brown stain that the water made worse; the water’s a strange colour and tastes of metal. There are new holes in the pipes again this morning. I will wrap them in plastic and cover them over with clay, but I fear it’s too late.
I’ve been sick for hours. The rats watch. I hear them scuffling and whispering. They can read now, I’ve seen them. They’d taken the papers from Sobia’s files. They stood rigid following the text by candlelight, then their voices rose in shrill cries of exhilaration. Not unintelligible nonsense, but curses for man and his lack of care of the world.
Sometimes the mirror is all that is left of normality. My face stares back palely; under my grey eyes are shadows. My flesh is spare though; I’m almost as thin as Sobia, but not as beautiful or as special. The rats do not sleep in my bed, they scuttle in the pipes and curse in the kitchen. They don’t any longer wait for night and their numbers increase.
There’s a strange silence today. Sobia says she has perfected her ability to communicate with the rats. She called me into her room to show me. There was no doubt. She laid out a chart on the floor. It took me a while to recognise exactly what it was because the room was dark with their presence. Slimy, warm, scuffling; a black and brown army of liquid fur, writhing, scratching, confident and nonchalant, they gazed entranced as she opened a plan of the city, every sewer marked, entrances, exits - who will notice a rat? The government fears humans. They regard rats as mere nuisance; even the elite white ones are deemed only fit for laboratory experiments. But these same rats paw over the plans, mutter affirmations, discus the best treats and study how to open windows and drains. They whisper their venom; they plan for their future, and no one suspects.
I look in the mirror. It is my only solace, my skin is moon silver and my ribs show like teeth above my abdomen. Sobia says that soon I will be special too; she has painted my legs with henna. The slow strokes of the brush spin a web of senses. It colours them warm and exotic. She will anoint me tomorrow. No one need know.
The wound has knitted at last. Spreading from its epicentre, a fine silver down grows; each morning there is more and my grey eyes grow darker. I sleep little; their voices are clearer than ever now.
Today I went out into the streets. There are more corpses; they litter the pavements and liquid runs from them, dark bile into the gutters. For the first time I feel a lightness, as if my body is air. I know the future is brighter. The sun cannot last forever, it burns itself out and the bins overflow, food for an army, wait to make our move, the hair on the scab spreads, light and glossy.
I have new senses. Everywhere I see fresh revelations, even the smell of rotting meat no longer sickens me, and in my head is a plan. It shows all the city’s entrances and all its exits. Tonight I will sleep on scarlet sheets. The mirror is still there but I lose interest. I no longer recognise what I see. Sobia is beautiful; she’s teaching me how to change the world. It’s a process, long overdue and tomorrow perhaps, I will own my own rat.

Once Upon a Time

2009-12-01T21:10:00.004Z

It was Wednesday morning and the princess Aida Parcelbottom had just been rudely awoken from her hundred year nap by an enthusiastic labrador noisily licking at her toes. She’d read dozens of fairytales and it did not comfort her in the least that his name was Prince.

It was all Ursula’s fault, the old witch had spiked her drink at her sweet sixteenth ball, grr and all because she’d forgotten to invite her. Even so, as she slumped to the floor listening to Ursula’s demented laughter her best friend Fairy Feefie Trixibell Peaches promised she’d soon wake up refreshed and beautiful in the arms of a handsome Prince.

Love’s first kiss; she thought, not something with dog breath and a foot fetish. Yuck she surveyed the guiless creature chewing her duvet, this must never get out the paparazzi would have a field day.

“Mumsie!” she shrieked “mumsie where are you?”

An incredibly old woman arrived, still panting from having ascended four spiral staircases, “Albert” she croaked “she’s awake, our little girl’s awake”

An equally decrepit old man followed her after a few minutes, aided by a gem encrusted walking frame. “Well I never; are you sure?” he shook his golden hearing aid as if to change the answer.

“Don’t be silly Daddy” the queen snorted “I’d know my baby anywhere.”

“But she’s so, err you know… Isn’t our girl about 16, so tall, slender with long golden hair? She looks a bit rough to me”

“What do you mean Daddy” shrieked Aida “Aren’t I young? Aren’t I beautiful? Somebody pass me a mirror.”

The queen shook her head “I’m not sure that’s a good idea; I mean what can you expect after a hundred years? No you’ve decidedly gone to pot dear. Let’s leave it a few days till you’re feeling stronger. Anyway there are a few other tiny changes as well.”

“What changes?” squeaked Aida examining her grey locks with veiny callused fingers.

“Well first of all dear” said her Mother blushing “after you dropped orf to sleep, the leylandii around the palace shot up ridiculously. We couldn’t understand it; it was exceptionally wet that year but 240 feet in twenty-four hours seemed excessive. Anyway the neighbours complained to the council and they sent us an impossibly rude letter saying we had a week to cut it or they’d do it and charge us, the cheek of it.

Then things got really nasty all the papers started making things up, saying daddy had done you in, it was really horrid wasn’t it darling?

In fact all the nasty commoners became rather hostile, they’re not very bright after all. There were wicked incidents involving rotten eggs on walkabouts and often one arose to find lewd gwaffiti on the palace doors, it was all a tiny bit disturbing.

Anyhow we were advised by our PR people to go onto reality TV, to put our side of the story as it were.

It all went rather well at first. But the offers kept coming and gradually we lost all credibility. It was shameful there was Queen Swap where I had to rough it in a lesser-known principality where the woman kept corgis in the castle and all of her children were divorced; imagine.

Then there was I’m a Royal Get me out of here. It was horrid daddy and I had to eat baked beans and sleep in something called a council house. Imagine one was only allowed one body servant. But just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse there was a credit crunch."

“A credit what?” asked Aida.

“Albert!” the queen shrieked and kicked his walking frame “explain please”.

The king’s eyes shot open “Well err, err” he said “we don’t fully understand it ourselves; normally one doesn’t handle anything as common as money. But some imbecile invested our stuff heavily in Icelandic banks and it must have been so cold over there that it became frozen or something; there’s an email about it somewhere” he pointed at the computer.

“After that” said the Queen “things went from bad to worse. Despite showing a clear profit on pageants and royal visits the bank foreclosed on the family business. Eventually we sank so low we had to run the palace as a themed restaurant.”

“Yes” added the king “as you know your mother’s never cooked for a large party before. In fact, well to tell the truth she didn’t know at first which end to open a potatot at, so catering seemed the obvious way forward.

I don’t know who that Garden Rumsey thinks he is with all those F words. Just because we’d been letting things slide a tad in the palace kitchen.”

“Well Aida darling” said the queen, tears in her eyes “it’s a good thing you woke up today because we’ve decided file for bankruptcy and go live the dream in Spain.”

“Yes” said the king having totally failed here what we really need is the challenge of a totally unknown language and inexplicable legal system.”

“But what about me?” wailed Aida “I’ve lost my looks, I’m ruined financially and after a hundred years without brushing my teeth my breath is melting the paint.”

“Yes we know dear” said the queen wrinkling her nose. But don’t fuss, mumsie has sorted everything out. Whilst you were lazing about I got you a spot on a hundred years younger dear. There, there they’ll soon have my baby botoxed, lipro-sucked, coiffeured, manicured and degreased.

And Daddy's been at it too he sold your story to Hello magazine who want you to do an article on sleep disorders.

Cheer up! If it all goes wrong you can always visit us in Spain, well once your father has renovating our new 800-year-old Castle that is. Better start reading up on DIY now Albert, Albert! Oh do try and stay awake dear...”

Wanted

2009-11-11T18:37:00.002Z

Have you seen this word?

Embarrassment

Embarrassment is wanted for questioning

He is described as a long word
With a characteristic E at the beginning
He is thought to have sneaked out

about 2.30 on Tuesday afternoon

grabbed Inspiration and throttled him

This lead to the death of an innocent Poem

There is no evidence; the corpse has been rubbed out

Detectives are looking into the grooves

Useful information for Pupils 2

2009-10-23T20:19:00.002+01:00

Things teachers say:

· What do you think you’re doing? This is not actually a question at all. Do not fall into the trap of explaining yourself. Merely apologise and put the hamster back in its cage.

· When you’ve quite finished. Anything else you’d like to do or can we start working now? Note these are trick questions and there are no correct answers.

· That’s really interesting. This either means stop interrupting or I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.

· Which comedian wrote this on the board? Warning this does not imply your teacher feels you have a brilliant career ahead of you making people laugh. He wants revenge.

· Pay attention – should not be accompanied by a note requesting money.

Cover Up

2009-10-19T22:16:00.004+01:00

The recent gravity machine's
malfunction left ancient listed
seas all floating - out
in - outer space

Someone's unplugged the polar
fridges. A form of damage
limitation. But it went out
the same way as the rest

The National Federation
for Discussions of Important
Decisions Not Decided or
Resolved: ruled it no good

to tell the workers, all
that needless panic and sent
a spray can into space to
paint the planet blue

Cross Purposes

2009-10-15T20:14:00.008+01:00

Silence class 9B
SILENCE!
Does no one understand
the word Silence?
Do I have to get a dictionary
and spell it out for you?
I don't know It's...
It's as if you and I speak
a different language
No Simon Jones
I don't need
A DICTIONARY

Killing Time

2009-10-13T19:41:00.003+01:00

He'd always been ordinary
Clothes, muted beige
The porcelain cup
with a picture of a cat
meant just that
no significance
Training shoes
some supermarket brand
stitched by children
in Deli - probably
His morning was grey
often they were
he couldn't seem
to start his car
But apart from
emptying the last
of his cash, into
the open hands of a
tramp and the illusion
of creeping damp
everything's normal
yet there it was
his watch had stopped
at twelve o'clock
Just like his own ticker

Dr PetTifogger’s Dictionary of Strange Pets

2009-10-10T16:13:00.002+01:00

Pet Al
Small and colourful creatures, do not like frost.

Pet Ition
Only for the knowledgeable pet owner, as if not properly trained it will insist on stopping people in the street to ask questions.

Pet Lip
Rather mischievous will stick itself out and trip people up, never let your granny take one to the park.

Pet Rifying
A pet for those with a strong stomach, clearly not for the young or nervous.

Pet Rochemical
Not an easy pet to keep if you have a small garden, when fully grown may become poisonous and attempt to escape.

Pet Ticoat
Definitely for those who like their pet with frills, comes in a variety of colours to match every outfit.

Pet Ty
Small and nervous creature, which likes to complain about almost everything, only handle occasionally and provide a mixed diet.

Pet Ulant
Rather sulky pets, but otherwise harmless. Must not be confused with a Petul Ant (small poisonous insect).

Pet Unia
Popular with those who like a colourful pet. Used to a hot climate, so will require a warm jumper or heated plant-pot to sleep in.

A Little Madness

2009-09-30T21:00:00.002+01:00

“And this is Joe Smiles reporting from Steel Arches primary school. It’s a tense moment as the substitute is brought onto the pitch.

But wait a moment it looks as if the substitute is going to be Wiffy’s gran.
She’s bending down on the touch line, it looks like she’s getting something out of her enormous handbag. It’s a machine, it looks like a gigantic knitting machine. Is that allowed? Yes the refs let it go. Well she hit him with it actually and tore up his yellow and red cards.

She’s switching it on she seems to be knitting a scarf, first it’s black then it’s white then it’s black again. It’s getting bigger and bigger it must be a scarf for the whole crowd.

But no the scarf seems to have come to life it’s tearing down the inside it’s knocked over Billy Jenkins and swallowed the ref and the first-aider is helping him off the pitch. And no I don’t believe it it’s caught up with the ball and it’s actually dribbling.

No one can believe it it’s a clear playing field and an open goal. Look it’s scored! What a legendary goal.

But it hasn’t finished yet no it’s filling the goalmouth it’s swallowing the goal and the goalie. Oh no it’s coming this way it’s wrapping its self round my feet. It’s up to my middle and this is Joe Smiles re-ooble ugh ooble.

And here is a news flash: a scarf has completely covered Steel Arches primary school. Police have managed to halt its rampage and save the town by confiscating knitting wool from an unnamed pensioner. They are presently unpicking the area for survivors.

Small Talk

2009-05-01T21:40:00.008+01:00

How am I, I look up
walk with your eyes
the mirror unfolds
some clandestine
disappointment, you
nudge me and grin
I tell you I’m fine

How am I, tiny
too small to see
under the gaze of
your flat screen TV
the car just delivered
the one in your drive
I tell you I’m fine

How am I; I’m actually
I’m; in point of fact
really I'm. You tell me
you feel that way too,
Worse, but you battled
through; a saint crucified
I tell you I’m fine

How am I; invisible
a torn grey sweater
a snapped washing line
You say more wine? Behind us
somebody slips in your smile
a basket of kryptonite
renders you blind.
I tell you I’m fine

How am I; You tell me
I insist you tell me
about your sixth-sense
we all of us struggle
about global-warming
you tell me, your own agony
this year Spain or perhaps
Italy. You touch me
you say 'you'll be fine'

The Colour of Bones

2009-04-15T20:33:00.000+01:00

A scarlet maiden lies in the cliff
open bellied. Chorister bats scaffold birds
shrieking farewell adieu

Stained rune-terracotta; fragments
The small beads of her pelvis
Blossom like cherries. From

such bones fall prophecy. Cerise, jasper
raspberry. Others fade to dung
in the scribbling sands

Old women plucking weeds. Softly folding
sea into her eyes; she sings enchantments
to colour bones green

A Documentary

2009-04-13T19:44:00.000+01:00

To study the habits of teachers
Pretend you are working
Whilst observing through small hole in book

Make a note of any colour changes
Before shouting is heard
Advanced warning of danger
If another teacher they fancy
Comes into the room,
Opportunity to drop guard

Teachers usually blush and giggle during courtship
It’s easy to spot,
Watch out for good moods,
New clothes/haircuts,
Dreamy expressions,
Leniency towards small crimes,
Lack of interest in homework,

Careful study will allow us to live in peace with these creatures
Tomorrow we’ll be studying the OFSTED inspector

Red Shoes

2009-02-16T18:56:00.001Z

Here the road goes nowhere and everywhere
But you – you stopped here
Thirty years before in new red shoes
Mini skirted, slenderly blond
Staring out into the lens
Dad’s arms around you
Smiling through ghost glass

Obscured by a battery of tasks
First you fought; then lost
Your smooth face and hands
Grew listless in smocks
Creased up and worn you fade into the backs
Of scrubbed cupboards
Are ironed flat; your red shoes
Turned blue under a cosmos of feet

Here everything except something
Kept you from everything
The house; the kids; the diligent bills
In tins; you are lost in a silent no-where
Yet your image remains
Dreamily gazing whilst the tides draw
towards you licking red shoes

The Gift

2008-12-02T20:06:00.004Z

You're eyes are green
Edged with violets; But
I didn't know it
Not then

Just the flick
Of small elbows
Delicate feathers

Bones yet
Whispers under
The smooth egg
Of my skin

Butterfly child
In muffled water
You were mine
In the darkness
But never again

The Change

2008-11-04T20:47:00.002Z

She chose to dine alone
Setting the table with care
Pausing to straiten the cloth
Watching it stretch out across

The smooth wood of the table
Like her own skin only lighter
Hating it; showing her
face - but - as yet - not quite

despised. Starting upstairs
the web took her by surprise
Another clump in the
Shower, a crisp white coffer

Its shape almost human. Strange
Each made her feel hungry
As she stacked them in the
parlour. She just caught the

postman. His screams though
muffled, sensed in all eight
legs the tremor; held him
down; wrapped quickly in silk

The parlour clock ticks
Chimes turn with the wind
Door ajar; she sits humming
Waiting calmly for the milk

Kingfisher

2008-10-03T18:53:00.001+01:00

The day is a canvas stretched over pockets
of darkness. My brush descends on a wire
pale meadows; brown veins of water; clouds blossom
in a duck plume sky. He darts electric
from weed banks. Still: preens saffron feathers in
midnight jewels. My brush takes up black; around
stars of light in his eye. Caught in a blur
ghost colours floating on vermillion
over still waters; changing with the fingers
of shadows: dusk. I feel my bones against
hard stones. The grit of warm soil beneath my
palms. Awake I take this moment, take up
the last bright flax of twigs sighing, then hold
tight a dream of it; down the darkened road

1978 ish Waiting For the Bell – After Carol Anne Duffy

2008-01-28T20:39:00.002Z

‘Mama just killed a man’ No mum! Daddy with a lipstick
In the kitchen; Ha, ha. We sang it walking home-
The world was ours. The girl with curly hair
Didn’t need no home-perm, rain did mine fine.
Murder for flicks, but it wasn’t the flick kind

No - we weren’t cool. Fridges were. Bumming
late-night scraps and newspaper vinegar kisses
Practice in mirrors just in case Danny’s got you
’Stranded at the drive- in’ Or that James
down the street - got his mate to ask you.

The square route of the hypotenuse-might have been
The route to youth club - it wasn’t so, I didn’t get maths
He’s looking at me, Miss, A-hundred-and-fiv
Twenty-five minutes to-the-bell-Miss, Drone-on
‘Tell me why I hate Mondays’ and Tuesdays and days

Night hisses out dreams on new silver transistor
Long nails with glitter - spilt some on the stereo
Doing the hand jive just like ‘Grease Lightning’
Hell mum! It was old anyway. I wonder, did
you ever fumble?In the dark? Did he ‘Give you
fever’?‘Romeo loved Juliet’ at the back of the church?

Look when you’re really old. Like thirty-five. Can’t
remember love - don’t do sex, I bet. Disgusting
With dad? What? Not just the twice then? Gin and tonic
please, and a cigarette. I’m telling you I’m never
getting old, or having kids Top of the pops is top

Fifty with the old man Jimmy the cigar. Mum
hates him for pretending to be young, it’s a criminal
offence. Like “‘her at the end wearing that skirt, like
some bit of a kid” ‘Et tu Bruti’, couldn’t spell
either so didn’t get nuffing sept, a trip to the head

'Ground control to major Tom’
‘Brown Girl in the Ring la di la di da’
Steve Williams now you’re talking.
Hey I ain’t no ‘sugar in a plum’ boy!

The Coral Mother

2007-10-16T17:53:00.000+01:00

A slow dancer ruffling shingle; like silk
Casting the skin of a cold courtesan
Tides and time cannot tame her.

Grown from change
With sun and rain
Her bed of crushed shells
Ground by motion
Circles of wind and planet
Clipping the land
She spews what she will
Over the feet of cliffs
An offering
Un-subservient
She licks their bended knee
First gentle
Then as titan pounds
Her body grows up harsh and hard.
Gulls like delicate crones
Negotiate her beauty
Its price; a closet for the shards of fish.

The salient sand smoothes tangles
From her gown, bids a fond farewell to
Sailors caught short as they fall for a last
Deep drink and deeper yet puppets shifting.

With the tide; limpets clasp empty throats
She covets gold pearls on carmine oyster lips
In her bawdy house of blank scull smiles.

Without Words

2007-10-12T19:32:00.000+01:00

Is birth then, like death? Dark, and as the darkness grows, we leave or arrive, yet our journey is somehow lost. The waxed faces at the hospital bed must bear witness to a life in both moments. Yet I, though centre stage, cannot remember the darkness inside of my mother, the intimate closeness of her bones. I have no memory of sharing her blood, her very breath, of our clinging together in our fragility, each the death and life of the other.

In the darkness I was important only to her; in the gentle humming over the dishes, in the small garments she sewed with deft slim fingers. In these things were all the dreams of whom I might become. She kept her secret deep inside and covered the smile that grew in her belly. For when I arrived the curled seedling that was me could not stretch, and on examining a finger, find a word to call it. For all that I would be was as yet still growing in my small fist of a scull.

Two Poems

2007-07-16T19:35:00.001+01:00

Ghost Words

There is a child who died here
He died yesterday and today
And he will die again tomorrow
He is anywhere you care to imagine
Without a roof or soft words
Perhaps on these very stones
He walked taking a smooth one
And turning it in his palm
As any boy, maybe yours, might
He was probably cold
Let us believe that he was
That his feet were sore
And his soul an insubstantial shadow
Yet even this luxury he sold
For a simple thing like bread
The sort our children leave uneaten
On a clean plate that is their right
But they do not deserve

Girl

I am my mother now. Just
a girl’s careless words echo
In a hall full of anger. In a hall
with a red carpet - twin
decades ago. I slammed
the door, leaving her behind
In my helpless silence

Pebbles

2007-06-02T21:43:00.001+01:00

Words are like pebbles. I weigh them in my hands
touching their surface; some egg smooth; some
rough; home spun. I must know them like old shoes
Remember the power of their first shy
kiss; full on the lips; how my heart fluttered
as I cast them out across the still lake of
paper. They fall where they will; a fresco
of sounds squeezed from my pen, scratched out and cast
out again, sending forth ripples as I
place them on the page. Some glow, like runes in
moonlight as they touch another; others
fade; sink to buff shade; a handful of dust
disappointment on the lips. Words are like
pebbles; they go where the river takes them

Wrong Side of the Blanket

2007-05-11T19:51:00.000+01:00

He passes colder than the ghost of my enemy
I declare his sin to the world
In every expression
Every bowed word
I wear his proud chin
His cold demeanour
With a smile
But not so well disguised that he does not see
The glitter of malice in mine eyes
The half remembered tempted
Curve of my breast
The swelling of soft cheeks
A fickle taste of the silver spoon

Ah Peter wouldst thou deny me thrice?
With yet no cock to crow
But chickens in the yard
Declaring thus, her!
His real daughter
Evil countenance in silk stockings
Lips less the peach and more the tarter
Hands more of linen than of lace

‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned’
I wished him dead
And the whole world with him
For a sack full of cloth and ashes
And a nun’s habit
Oh I know I should accept
Like mother who
Took his cold kisses
His quizzing lizard gaze
For love
That daughter, his
Sleeps late, while I
Build the fire in the grate
I bathe her pallid skin
In rose water

How her nose would twist at coal-tar
The rough end of the blunt spoon
That dragged me kicking from the womb
Landing in such filth and blood
As would never come off
Ah but I will dance delicate jig yet
On a fine mahogany box
For my basket is laced with more than enough
And all for my ladies comfort

Again I'm looking for feedback, more coursework!! This was inspired by a picture of a young servant who had a quiet dignity and a sophistication that belied her apparent station, so I invented a history, comments on lucidity and structure would be greatly apreciated werther posative or negative-Please pretty please!

Ms Begum in Love

2007-03-15T20:32:00.000Z

More writing exercises, might turn it into something later, in the meanwhile now my first asignment's in I will be visiting you all soon.
Love Sue
xx

I can’t help it whenever I look up I find I’m staring at Ms Begum’s face, we all do it. There’s something fascinatingly about that creped mouth drawn on in lipstick. We look till her radar clocks us then look down quick in case her blood-shot eyes turn us into something.
Her tongue’s worse; we’re drawn to it with nauseous fascination. We’ve spent weeks trying to work out how it fits into that fat short neck. Maybe it’s telescopic, such a hideous navy colour too, dripping strings of saliva on her brand new laptop. It’s unnatural the way she wraps it round her pencils sucking their sharpened tips. There’s a tongue that defies the laws of physics.
Even her hair’s odd like a withered poinsettia, as if she dyed her whole head auburn to compliment the green of her scales. Yes proper scales, polishes them every break with some strange muck in a bottle. She stole her personality from an injured crocodile, else she’s the result of a pact with the devil, leastways if there’s a skeleton in her cupboard it’s human.
Bagshore caught her eating locusts in the science-lab. She had him there ages, till the head overheard screaming and insisted she removed the electrical probes.
Funny thing though, she actually fancies the head. Course he’s totally embarrassed. Her giggling whenever he appears, fluttering greasy eyelids and puffing out her chest like a huge blue-tongued turkey. Gobble, gobble, spit-yuck and he’s off at the first available, leaving her in a right mood. Look at her now just looking for trouble.
“Henrietta Sybil what are you doing?”
Now there’s a loaded question “Nothing”
“Nothing what!”
I hate this game, everyone is looking holding their breath, if I take the fall they might make it home “Nothing err..”
“Miss! Miss! Nothing Miss!
“Noth-th-ing Miss?”
In her bulgy eyes I see malevolent glee, I’ve fallen right into her web and she knows it.
“AH SO SHE ADMITS IT DOES SHE? SHE’S DOING NOTHING, IN MY LESSON!”

Last request

2007-02-24T21:00:00.000Z

No I haven't lost it this is an excercise for the course I'm doing and I have to write a reflection on the process and things people said that made me change it so anyone's constructive crytic would be apriciated. The exercise was 'your last meal' it was supposed to use senses show not tell and to be 300 words.

Barbiturates, six, shiny green ones and four dry red pellets.

‘Do not break’, I laugh, who will shoot me?

Guinness! Oh how I missed you, your mettlesome smell, the click of the pump, cold, dark iron slipping over my tongue.

And whisky, Jack Daniels! A warm-golden kiss hugging the glass, a sinister sister for Madame Butterfly. No ice, no hangover. Perfect.

Caressing with fake red nails the single indigo plate flecked with cinnamon, sliding one finger-tip across ivory silk, honey by candlelight, a fine shroud.

Red glass crazed, gold filigree, a holy chalice to catch tears. Strangely there are none.

Odd to see my face floating in a windows, sallow so unlike itself. If I were my mother, I would tell me off.

Six years since I tasted it, real bread, not substances, pungent with stale mashed potato, plastic coated offerings, welded, and painted to create textures and flavours like bricks or polystyrene.

Such precious crumbs, I will not leave them. They fall from crust onto soft warm flesh. Yeast begging me to inhale, just to be tempted, just to stretch out the ritual, a last forbidden torment.

Butter in a clean white pot, businesslike too stiff to coax, yielding only to temperature. Then ochre liquid pooled on fingers dripping down dark lips on someone’s face, someone’s neck, mine perhaps.

The smile is not mine, Lover, squashed hard onto my lips, a tiny piece then.

No, not now, too late now, not salty or sweet, not iron or warm gold, just ash water and swallowing grit and ‘pip, pip pieeeeeeeeep’.

Bile for the ghost nurse swimming around me. The stealthy mortician’s slab following quietly. The white coated carrion who spread antiseptic, and tubes, and chalk lines. Only I can watch them, spinning round on the ceiling, on indigo plates flecked with cinnamon.

No Argument

2007-02-10T17:56:00.000Z

Below is the best poem I’ve ever written

It alliterates attractively

Has imagery that illuminates the page

And Metaphors that melt in the mouth

Its similes shimmer like moon beams

And its perfect punctuation pauses it,

in all the right places…..

Unfortunately I’ve written it in invisible ink,

But it’s dead good honest!

Tagged by Russel

2007-01-31T18:59:00.000Z

Five Little known facts about myself, as you can see I was tagged, I'm not going to tag you but if you want to join in below feel free.

1. My favourite word is Monsoon
it sounds so much nicer than rain

2. I'd love a pet elephant
but I can't find a shop that
sells big enough pyjamas

3. I often write poetry in the
middle of the night in the loo
well OK not actually in the loo
in the room the loo is in

4. I think ice cream is far too cold
but my experiments to warm it up
have so far been unsuccessful

5. I am inventing a new language
that u can speel eniway u wont

The Gilt Box

2006-12-21T18:52:00.000Z

Everyone noticed Simian because everyone loved him. Simian, her beautiful brother. Tall and strong with the face of an angel. His golden hair and dark blue eyes, almost black in their intensity.

Torsia might have felt jealous no-one could have blamed her. But instead she became his willing slave. She found she could begrudge him nothing, least of all her love. So they had shared almost everything a mutually satisfying alliance between the beautiful Simian and his little shadow sister, with the long, dark hair and the pale face she had never felt was quite pretty enough.

She couldn’t remember when it had started, but it was the same every year. As Christmas Eve approached Simian would become withdrawn and quiet, then by degrees restless. At first she had tried to find out what was wrong, only giving up when he became angry with her.

He did not, it seemed, want to share his secret.

Then the wandering would begin. He would disappear, often for hours, only returning in the early hours paler but happier, more like the brother she knew and loved.

At first she had been too small to follow him, only just reaching the end of the lane in time to watch him tantalisingly disappear into the quiet darkness of the woods.

That was until her tenth year, when the river froze and the snow came early. That year she crept out behind him following him through the woods and up the lonely hillside.

It was darker than she’d expected and when the moon disappeared she was plunged into almost complete blackness, the feeble light of her small torch, doing little more than to show a few feet in front of her.

Looking back at the valley she could see the coloured lights swathed around the village square, somehow comforting in their familiarity.
The snow was thick and heavy going. Simian’s footprints showed a dark trail. She shivered as the cold crept down her sleeves and into the gaps in her clothes.
*
Simian looked at the old dark house. It seemed to bend closer sagging a little more at the seams. Inside he remembered it would smell damp and lonely but for the faint aroma of cinnamon and dried lavender.

He clambered over huge frozen boulders, fringed with wild figures of trees, wearing stiff white coats.

A twig snapped behind him and Torsia pulled herself through the hedge. She let out a low whistle as she caught sight of him in the moonlight.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, pulling a face and turning away.

“I was worried about you.” her voice faltered

“Well I’m fine, so you can go right back.”

“Oh don’t be like that, what are you doing up here, all alone in the dark?”

In spite of himself he looked up across the white garden to where the straggling monkey-puzzle tree leered and waved bony arms, a pale ghost against the heavy sky. And glowing in the pale moonlight; there looking somehow more real against their newly whitened world, were the statues; just as they had always been.

He knew each one by name. Their vacant stare regarded him impassionedly. Floorless skin that would never age, each a child crafted so convincingly that but for the fluid whiteness of their skin might seem only to have paused in the games they had played throughout past centuries.

Followed his gaze, she felt herself shiver, she didn’t like to admit it but the whole place gave her the creeps.

“Get lost!” he threw the words at her, then set off up the uneven slippery path.

“I’ll tell mum!”
He glanced back, his face full of anger then carried on towards the house.

“I didn’t mean it, don’t go, there could be anyone hiding in there.”

The moon shifted from behind a black cloud and an eerie light flooded the garden. She watched him push open the heavy door and disappear. Torsia stood mesmerised; her breath floating in the dark air for a few seconds, then stumbled up the path catching her hand on something sharp and cold.

“Simian”, she whispered pausing in the doorway. The hall lit up as the clouds gave way again. The door shifted a little, thudding against its frame.
“Simian” she heaved the door too and stood in the darkness, something scuttled across the floor. Something small and hairy probably, but too small to hurt her, then footsteps above her, she put her foot on the bottom stair.

“Simian is that you?”

She took another step. The boards were loose she clung to the rail unsteadily “It might be dangerous, the floor I mean. Come on Simmi, talk to me I’m….”
Pausing in the darkness, her feet felt numb and difficult to manoeuvre. She blew on her hands, trying to regain feeling in them, so she could grip the torch. In its beam the landing looked solid enough. She inched along it.
Several doors seemed to lead off uninvitingly into different rooms. For a moment she thought she saw something, a shadow perhaps. Then just for a few seconds an intense feeling of misery enveloped her. She reasoned with herself, ‘it was the darkness’. Stealing herself to examine them coolly, objectively, she continued ‘It’s just an empty old house’.

The doorway did not answer her, it merely shifted in its frame, a dark forbidding hole.

But from the furthest a strange light radiated, a warm flickering that crept out onto the surrounding walls.

A cold fist of air glanced off her cheek sending a strange prickling sensation racing through her limbs. Reeling she almost fell, staggering into the room, catching at the walls as she was propelled forward. Then there was the sound of a small child laughing.

The room was intensely warm and she had landed on a soft rug. Drawing her knees up, she rose unsteadily to her feet.

“Simmi”, she whispered, but he didn’t seem to hear her.

In one corner of the room was a large fur tree, a young woman perhaps a year or so older than Simian, was hanging coloured paper lanterns on its boughs. A small girl kept pulling things from a small packing case and showing them to Simian, who chatted playfully with her. Another child knelt on the floor playing with a painted train and humming softly to himself. None of them seemed aware of her presence several times glancing back in her direction, yet staring right through her. Their clothes were strange too, the women’s skirt was long and wide sweeping the floor when she moved so gracefully she almost floated along it. The children might have been dressed for some kind of party except there was something else about them, a wistful sadness; Torsia could feel it rather than see it.
The little girl handed a china angel to Simian and he placed it on the uppermost branch of the tree then bent and whispered something to her. Torsia began to feel impossibly warm and light headed.

Simian she realised also looked strange; he had on a long coat unlike anything she’d seen before. His black boots were shiny and new showing no signs of the snow he’d just walked through and why was he wearing that stiff white shirt? Torsia’s eyes blurred she couldn’t concentrate properly, why was it so hard to breathe?

Simian reached into his pocket. The small girl giggled, somehow it sounded as if it echoed distantly in the hall. From his pocket Simian lifted a small gilt box. Kneeling down he lifted the catch.

Torsia’s head began to swim, she wanted so badly to see but the room suddenly went dark. She felt a rush of icy air like a weight upon her chest crushing all the breath out of her.

“Simian”, she screamed “Simmi”.
*

For a moment she couldn’t collect her thoughts, daylight was streaming into the room, an unfamiliar room with yellow roses on the wall and a small fire burning in the grate. She was warm lying in the vast bed but there was a strange smell she couldn’t quite place.

She struggled to sit and realised she was not alone. Sitting on the bed with his hands covering his face was Simian.

The door opened a fraction and into the room walked the small girl; in her hand was the gilt box.

“He said you wouldn’t come but you did”, she said smiling happily.
Torsia looked confused and the child continued “He said we’d lost you forever but I knew you’d come” the smell intensified suddenly she remembered cinnamon, cinnamon and dried lavender. Why was it so hot? The child opened the box inside was a photo, slightly torn and browning with age. It was almost impossible to see at first but in her hands the image flickered and intensified.

Surrounded by small children a young couple stared back at her; a woman in a wide dark skirt and a young man, tall with light coloured hair and dark eyes.

“Simmi” she whispered.

He turned towards her his eyes were sad but he smiled his beautiful smile “I tried so hard this time”, he said simply, almost apologetically “but I knew you would come in the end”.

The photo fell from her hands, faded and torn, all except for one figure, more substantial than the rest. This child stood at the very front of the photo. She was a girl with long dark hair and a pale face, a face she had never thought quite pretty enough.
*

Outside the snow fell covering the last of the footprints. Now only the dark house was left to brood in its heavy white cloak. Silence fell with the snow, cold as the face of the woman in the dark dress. Pale as the slim hands, that chipped with a fine silver chisel, searching its contours for the child within.

Life Interrupted

2006-12-06T18:52:00.000Z

Echoes of footsteps
Thin bleatings of spring
Sink into green velvet
Sheep float in pools
Cupped in ribbons of soil

Still trees hold vigil
Standing nude; black-widows
Tearing their flesh
Over dark fingered gloves
Sprawled broken on rock

Hear the river dragon’s roar
Flaring stone gills-
Spitting damp icy breath
Loath to release its grip
Or lift wings of flood

Creeping it whispers
Boiling a death mask
Of thin paper clouds
Laying flat to the land
It swallows them whole

A Boy

2006-11-10T18:52:00.001Z

A boy stared out beyond his years
And could not wait for time
He rushed to taste the future
Towards a distant light
On past youth and freedom
Without knowing what he’d passed
Left all behind with innocence
And came to the edge at last
With age he turned to seek his path
The child - the boy - the man,
But love, nor gold, nor deep regret
Could bring back youth again

Recipe for Disaster

2006-11-03T18:40:00.000Z

List of ingredients:

1. a vase
2. any of the following:
a) a small child with bike
b) a cat and a dog
c) a cat or a dog

In the absence of a) b) or c) an older child can be used with great success, providing of course that they are fairly stupid and own a ball. If you don’t have one of your own, borrow the next door neighbours.

Method

Put all the ingredients into a small semi and leave to marinate.
This is an easy recipe even for those who are not used to wreaking havoc as it requires minimal preparation or cooking.

Serving Suggestions

Serve with vigorous screaming, a liberal sprinkling of lies and where possible a sibling with an eye for detail.

Bon’ appétit!

The Misunderstood Monster

2006-10-26T11:40:00.000+01:00

'I hate being a monster mum'
The little monster said
'I’m scared of other monsters
And I hate it under beds

It hurts when children run away
I jump when people scream
I don’t suit a monster diet
Just give me chips and ice cream

I’m allergic to dust and spiders
I need to hold hands in the dark
I don’t want to make noises in cupboards
I’d rather go play in the park?

I guess what I’m trying to say mum
Is I’m different to you and dad
Do you think you could love me as I am?
Cause I’m no good at being bad'

Snake Skin Shoes

2006-10-16T20:15:00.000+01:00

Dat snake he someting else-yu kno
A real smooth operator
An him sneakin ‘n’ slopin al round dat tree
In he al too shiny new suit ‘n’ plus four
In love wid himsel -dat for sure
You know him alright
Dat kid at school
Dat one everyone scaret of
James Dean-puffing on a cigarette
Elvis too-if both dem serial killer

‘Well yu jus taste de apple’ he say
‘Jus a bit-what harm it do girl?
Him upstairs-why yu tink he tell yu not ta touch?’
Him done wan you to know too much
Dat why-not cos it do yu hurt girl’
An there he is jus talkin awa
Smooth as butter milk
Wid him eye dat you drown in
Till I jus melt-I ask yu-is dat a crime?
Well is it? Dat snake he someting else-dat al

Adam? Well dat man sho did sulk
Blame me? Sho-yu bet him did
But now him laugh alri
Rite down from him belly to him toe
No-don spose him ever forgit
Yu kno him
Him not de forgivin kin
But sho did laugh alri-dat day
What day-I hear yu say?
Why de day dat I giv him dem snake skin shoes

Idea Seeds

2006-10-07T18:42:00.000+01:00

I planted an idea seed
Somewhere inside of me
Watered it and tended it
To see what it would be

Carefully I added words
And pruned its punctuation
Hacked at all the boring bits
Removing excess information

I patted it and shaped it
And watched it slowly form
Fed it on inspiration
And kept it nice and warm

And from a small idea
That no one else could see
With just a little love and care
I grew a poe-tree

Wasteland

2006-09-29T18:37:00.000+01:00

Out beyond box hill
Past the sewage factory
Framed by pylons and chimneys
Are the wastelands

Here nomadic tribes
Wandering for days
Search for water or seek shade
From a savage sun

Here rockets leave for Mars
Returning after weeks
With dead and injured comrades
And scientific samples

Here too with the Maya
Battle scarred we powwowed
Made terms with their king, set sail
To circumnavigate the globe

It’s condemned
The wasteland
‘A proper eye sore!’
they say ‘and dangerous too’
The council wants it
To build a skate park
Cos kids round here have nothing much to do

Darkness

2006-09-22T01:49:00.000+01:00

The dark is a summer shadow
A smile at the edge of the moon
A blanket to hang the stars from
A mask for a lover’s rune

The dark is a hidden promise
The blackened eye of a lock
The space in a hidden corner
The secret inside of a box

The dark is a dull reflection
A ghost in an empty tomb
A crack in the face of an angel
A voice in an empty room

The dark is a colour for dreaming
A billowing cloak for the wind
A cushion of curdled enamel
A place where the earth begins

The dark is a haunted vessel
The soft arm that cradles the soul
The view in a guileless mirror
Of the darkness we all own

RIDDLE

2006-09-08T16:33:00.001+01:00

Massive
Ordactil
Nocturnal
Slack
Toed
Eastern
Riddles don’t sign their names they just use initials,

It’s a little known fact that extinct T-rex
Couldn’t write at all so they just signed X

Mad

2006-09-02T20:59:00.000+01:00

Our teacher’s really lost it
He’s forgotten how to speak
He says ‘Ta Ta and Bysee’
Like his brain has sprung a leak

He asked Miss. Snow for ‘bickies’
He’s got teddies in his car
And he keeps a little photo
Called ‘derd a cuti yes u are!’

His hair is always all messed up
He keeps falling fast asleep
And he hasn’t marked our homework
For weeks and weeks and weeks

We thought a witch had cursed him
Or a zombie mushed his brains
But he’s got a brand new baby
That’s why our teacher’s gone insane

Whatever

2006-08-29T21:02:00.000+01:00

Whatever the colour of our skin
The length of our legs
The size of our nose
The thickness of our hair
The weight of our troubles
The shadows of our frown
The depths of our joy
The shape of our smile
Or the strength of our soul
We all walk the same earth
And when we cry
Our tears sound the same

Amber

2006-08-20T14:06:00.000+01:00

Undreamt worlds passed you
Forest floors gave birth to huts
Crops-walls rose and fell

Men decayed their bones
Bleached by the sun became one
With tawny ash-rock

A subtle honey
-trap its delicate embrace
Held you like lovers

Pressed deep into earth
Fly who walked with dinosaurs
A million years? More?

Pulled from soft darkness
Beneath vagaries of cities
You burn in candles

Your secrets-adorn
milky throats-ears Of course you
Will never say more

Of sun-air-wind-rain
Or love For flies have no words for-
immortality

Christmas in Transylvania

2006-08-11T20:06:00.000+01:00

Don’t go to Johnnie’s for dinner?
You mustn’t ask Johnnie to play
I know that he likes bats and cobwebs
But you really must send him away
Didn’t your Daddy tell you?
Dear Drack that it’s really rude
To enter a place without asking
Or worse still to play with your food

James’s Mother

2006-07-31T13:37:00.000+01:00

James has arrested his mother
It seems her main offence
Was publicly showing affection
And criminal dress sense

Though she whined for justice
And screamed “Who’ll cook the tea?”
James sited lots of other counts
Dating back to the age of three

The judge got very angry
Stating “Tea is no defence!
I think this case requires
At the least a death sentence.”

But James felt a prickle of conscience
Begged the judge for clemency
Suggesting community service
As long as she still cooked the tea

So his mother got off with a warning
And six hours a week digging roads
The boy had to agree for the sake of his tea
He would turn a blind eye to her clothes

On the Couch with Mrs Persons

2006-07-04T22:31:00.000+01:00

Mrs Persons is hypnotised
By sound like a headache
Strutting through my head

Gawping at glowing white angels
In tattooed makeup
Serving rainbow food
From a cloud kitchen
With a life resistant surface

Mrs Persons longs for virtual babies
Dancing in remote controlled nappies
With perma-smiles

Are you in debt?
Get more in debt
Buy a holiday with the spare debt
Read the small print
Don’t forget

But don’t get old
Age must be surgically enhanced
Botoxed
Dyed
Exercised
And slimmed away

Mrs Persons will live forever
On a diet of friendly bacteria
Low fat celery
Plus added vitamins
Her bodily functions
Will be replaced by colonic irrigation
One less job for the mortician
Should she loose the battle for eternal youth

Post Card to Africa

2006-06-27T17:31:00.000+01:00

Dear Brother,

Today my child threw away an apple
An apple your child would have held
Like a jewel, golden in his hands.
Holding it up like a shrine
Saying “look at my beautiful apple
So sweet, so precious."

But this was an apple no-one cared for
It lay among the shreds and ashes
With a small piece torn away
And on its side a bruise had flowered.

Nothingness

2006-06-17T20:49:00.000+01:00

I care for nothingness
of floating backward
in a pool of thought
to be alive
and to revel in it

The thrilling of sences
dreamings and feelings
streatching fingers, toes
I celebrate
the smile of the soul

I care for nothingness
enjoy the exquisit
soft music of life
rhythem that is
sheer pleasure of being

Silence

2006-06-10T20:38:00.000+01:00

I don't recall any other sounds
A desert of silence
Among the heartbeats
Expelled air choked-or held

Clouds creep across the sky
Pursing lips unvoiced
Leaves screwing up faces
The insolence of ordinary keys
A sprawling paper clip
The pallid clock-that picks at life

Is this what silence is then?
Something we speak of
Two whole minutes of it
Birds do not respect its emptiness
Distant cables-hum the rhythm of life
Nothing will stop them
Who will silence the dog or sheep?
I do not ask their observance
Or question their irreverence

I take each curtain by its throat
Squeezing the life from each
Tear off the tears-distasteful
As the pointlessness of beauty
And wait patiently only for him
Him who will silence us all

Sludge Bog Stew

2006-06-01T09:09:00.000+01:00

Sludge Bog Stew

Sundays

2006-05-28T20:46:00.000+01:00

You smiled the blue sky
floated round in silver pieces
the air tasted sweet
Colours passed through me
Raining from the stars
Each had a flavor, a feeling
Each had a bigger smile
The sun walked with me
stretching, living
Voicing its golden words
It kissed the land-trickling
into the warm breath of night
Bathing in burning rays of fire

This morning you cried grey sky
Hanging from my head
Dragging back my hair
I tried to swallow my heart
like a boy caught smoking
my sleeve caught fire
You watched impassive
through closed eyes.

When the sun rose
It was a dry hard biscuit

Ship of Dreams

2006-05-23T19:52:00.000+01:00

Under ice we sleep
Fireflies dancing in lanterns
Pools of winter sun

Down, down and falling
Crushed, by the iron water
Cold lipped salt geisha

We wave pale silent
Through jet edged anenomies
Caress startled beds

Death’s faithless lover
Floats in ghost seas of angels
Washing bitter stars

Echoing last cries
Hugging rocks, scattered pebbles
Laced with love’s glass thorns

Flames whip up a shoal
Of wild ruby eyed horses
Sapphires and stones fall

Then the whole world stops
Until darkness comes creeping
To turn out the light

Tell me about it

2006-05-18T21:16:00.000+01:00

"Beautiful" said mum
"What a nice er donkey? Horse? Sheep?"
I very patiently explained it was a dog

"Wonderful" said dad
"What a lovely dog"

I didn’t want him to feel stupid
So I didn’t tell him
It was a different picture

It’s a Fact

2006-05-12T15:41:00.000+01:00

It’s difficult to negotiate after a Fact
It’s a Fact
Facts are like that!
They have little time for Theories
Being Facts they feel superior
And go around proving themselves
Facts take a dim view of Dreams
Because Dreams completely ignore them
And don’t respect reality
Facts are usually hard
And backed up by other Facts
Facts however
Are terrified of other Facts
They’re scared of being proved wrong
Cause if they are
They can’t be Facts
And it’s a Fact
Facts don’t like that!

Haiku Haiku all fall down

2006-05-05T11:56:00.000+01:00

Haipu

If pigs really flew
Folk who’d been poohed on by birds
would wear larger hats.

Tiger

Amber eyes lashed coal
dark lace lines creep antique gold
part of tree and grass

Elephant

Great mud beast cracked baked
tusk trooping trunk trailing tank
creased worried gentle.

Native

2006-04-20T20:18:00.000+01:00

Where dark angles meet
a choking sky stiffly held
by planks of buildings

The cloud’s eyes open
rainbows landing in a lift
paring open walls

Standing still almost
first spring coat: the immaculate
Polished prism jet

Coiffure of feathers
beak perfect yellow smiling
In the smoky light

Fresh from dust toilet
he regards the oiled steaming
skinny black puddles

Adeptly balanced
on cracked cliffs of concrete rust
an urban nomad

Forbidden

2006-04-16T12:03:00.000+01:00

Corrugated fields flow through buff dry plains
Gingerly-tufts of sheep harvest bitter moors
Smudged with gorse and shrinking dry walls

They took you from me; your sweet caresses
Pressed petals faded magenta hearts-folded
Love poems-stripped; held naked to the light

Grey glass, coldly unconcerned, slides past trees
Weeping-leaves: in greyscale-a stranger’s nails
Pick up the beat. A door closes-legs move

And when the dust had settled streaked across
my face; took us out at dawn and shot us;
Slowly hacking back the flesh stitching wounds

Even the moon’s blank stare-is an envelope
slipped over dusk. Darkness pools on milk-white
skin; a thousand eyes floating in darkness

I remember night, walking hand in hand
Only the grim tightrope of reality
flickered. Slithering, falling- like a web

I lift up my hair-to slip off the mask;
Shamefaced honed to the point of a needle;
Blistered with the cotton rain and melting

Children they said and shaking their heads
Told us it was not allowed. Like swearing
and staying out late. A cup of poison…

The sky is falling little by little
A dark pool of sky, a stream, an ocean
Of all the forbidden tears in the world

Strange Creatures

2006-04-12T20:43:00.000+01:00

Don’t trust ‘em obviously-No
I don’t think you can bond with them
They’re unpredictable at best
At worst cold blooded killers

They can’t help it of course
It’s their instinct I suppose
No sense of smell at all
Blind as bats
And partially deaf

Easy pray yes
But don’t be tempted
The rest will come after you
Watch out for old-long-black nose
He’ll put you in a documentary

A good question
I don’t know exactly
But he followed mum for years
Trying to put her in one

The Sad tale of Benjamin Bloater

2006-04-07T20:03:00.000+01:00

Benjamin Bloater was proud of his skill
Of trumpeting slyly and burping at will
Friends frowned as he frittered his gases away
Belching and blasting all night and all day
He tooted at teachers
Boffelled big boys
Puffelled at puppies
And relished rude noise
Relatives ranted and begged him to cease
‘Till raspberries rattled their ears and their teeth
Slyly he squandered his stifling steam
Till noses were pinched and visitors green
He pumped poppers at parties
Spoiled soups and stews
Exhaled and eructed
The foulest of fumes

For this boy, enough was never enough
Till the day he was left with only a puff

Extinguished and empty in wanton waste
Sadly he pondered his slowing of pace
He squashed and salivated
Worried and wined
Stuttered and shouted
But still not a sign

The tale gets sadder as he grew and grew
Crushed cracking and crowded his stomach was full
It swelled till it touched the walls and the floor
Creaking and crushing the windows and door

No escaping or easing
He came to the boil
And loudly exploded!
Shrank and recoiled

His mother said sadly “It’s what we predicted
A justice for all the pain he inflicted”
So here ends the tale of Benjamin’s skill
Of trumpeting slyly and burping at will.

The Visitor

2006-03-27T22:45:00.000+01:00

A monster came to school
Its breath was rank
Its armpits stank
Its teeth were sharp and cruel

It wore clothes of a kind
It bellowed loud
Its voice was foul
Terrified we smiled

Its fur was long and greasy
Beneath it’s nose
Looked kind of gross,
And really made us queasy

The head rushed to give greeting
He said “Meet miss!
Your teacher kids.”
Then sadly he was eaten.

Love in a Bottle

2006-03-01T21:12:00.000Z

A dog faced dawn plods frozen in darkness
Knotting its self through the ribbons of sky
Dusting the dark from the drunk dismal gutter
It loosens the faces of dull careless lovers
Dreamless like absence; eyes draped in tissue
And swallows the bile of embarrassed goodbyes

Creeping and sniffing rodents from sewers
Commuter sleepwalkers faded and grey
Spend their days hoping the dreamers deliver
Full to the brim they empty the bottle; while
staggering forth life swears at the mirror
Crumples up dreams and hurls them away

Fonicks

2006-02-21T18:21:00.000Z

Mi teature sez I must corekt mi sbellin me selv
But wot do yew do?
Iv yew hafent got a klew,
How two sbell it?
An yew karn’t fynd it in the Dicshenery.

aw iv yoo hafe tride evry way two sbell it
And yor Sbell Chequer
Gives yuo the rong worm?

Or wen yu lefed Klick on yor,
Conpewter an it sez
-No sbelling sujestuns
Sew yew klick -luck it up
And it sez -knot in the Dicshenery.

Itz a consprisee!

Insomnia

2006-02-17T13:52:00.000Z

Wind groans and drags the door, fingers tracing
rising bumps of hair; I curl back warm in
mother’s womb; but inside my eyes glow bright
-and wide, my jaw a vice that crushes heads
Each glowing character burns hot; each
stringy-minute-stretching; another hour
struggles, blinking; till each, snaps grimly past

Curtain tracks shriek their anger, resenting
Intrusion; they seek dark corners; shiver
on cold walls; haunted by shadows of sleep.
Doors pour silhouettes; chances companions.
But outside morning waits; laying down-dark
sky, uncaring she births; torn-at the suns head
And whispering promise, tomorrow smiles

The Silk Dress

2006-02-01T18:04:00.000Z

I looked into the future and freedom beckoned
Childhood was too small for me
I wriggled and tore and pushed
Till it lay at my feet
Faded like the day

I left because it was too small and tight
I hated its restriction its familiarity
Freedom gave me wings
The sun was hot
But I could fly

The future beckoned but it wore faded wings
Its eyes were pale and it could not fly
Childhood still at my feet
Lay torn a misty dream
Forgotten unexplored

I picked it up gently and laid it against me
Shimmering silk full of hope
So tiny and frail
I wear an old dress now
Future is silent
Childhood beckons in an old dress

Previously published in Poetic Storm 2005

Gerringong

2006-01-26T20:25:00.000Z

We follow the travelling path
Criss-crossed by dust midden
Cool rain she brought us
Like pale sleep walkers
Strange figures in tall bald coal towers

Growing damp or dry throated
With the tapping of crickets
Our tears grow like melons
As one with the river
Carving our grief under blue spider tree

We bed down with horizon
And rest with night spirit
Footstep on footstep
Deep in earth basin
Wake we with weringerong

Then sun, slap our heads
With the back of her hand
Hollow beetle hushing
Running through brush
Feather rock-wish we free like he

We are flowers in sun
Our words, leaves in wind
Our grief is dry resin
In the shades of our footsteps
In the river’s silent tears

The Bottolist

2006-01-19T20:18:00.000Z

I’m a famous Bottolist
I study bottles
I built a hide to watch em
There’s a nest near the nettles.

I’ve been watching for weeks!
I call him Speck
He’s the Alpen male
Other Bottolists may notice
The speck on his neck.

The one over there
With the crack in her side
I call that one Sal
She’s their main hunter,
Oh look a rare sight of her catching a snail!
It’s doomed once inside.

They seem to be nocturble
Sociable within family groups
Other Bottelists will be aware
That nests sometimes called Dumps
Can be found every where
In small pockets of rubbish

Note: Dumps are built mainly
From paper, old rugs and roots

I haven’t yet caught a sniff, of any youngsters
They must keep them in burrows under the ground
They don’t move much, but if your lucky
You might just catch one flying over the fence

Muddy Indigestion

2006-01-14T20:34:00.000Z

It is not of course a pleasant experience to be swallowed by a crocodile, but if one is swallowed whole, it is some small consolation.

Once Talic had got over the shock and his eyes had adjusted to the light, he found that being eaten was not nearly as unpleasant as he’d imagined. Admittedly the crocodile’s throat had a nasty smell, a sort of mixture of dead fish and muddy indigestion and the floor beneath his feet was slippery and revolting: but at least the large sharp teeth he’d passed on the way hadn’t chopped him into pieces or removed anything of any great importance.

At last clinging to some slimy sticks and bits lodged here and there he managed to stand upright. Trickling beneath him was a sort of river, not a green gold river like the one Talic had just been paddling in. This was a foul, steaming, unwholesome bile.

Now Talic knew he was in a fix and no mistake. Miserably he imagined his mother’s horror when she found just his toy ship and shoes on the riverbank.

Additionally his tummy began to make an uncomfortable growling noise, how long ago his breakfast seemed. His mouth watered at the thought of his mother’s freshly baked corn cakes dipped in milk and honey and he felt empty and lonely.

Miserably he felt around, something cold and wet brushed past him. He stretched into the darkness with his fingers and grasped a bristly piece of twine. Winding it around his wrist he gripped the slimy floor with his bare feet and pulled hard. Suddenly with a jerk the twine came loose and down, down he fell, into the sludgy river.

Thrown this way and that he bumped along making little grunts and yelps of pain, which echoed around the walls and ceiling.
For a while all he could think about was how to avoid the slippery sides and bottom; and all the trailing bits hanging down.
Then in the distance over the greedy sucking noises of the water he heard another voice.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeloooooow!” it said “Heeeeeeeeeeeloooooow where are yooou?”

Talic’s heart thumped loudly. What if he had survived this only to be eaten by a river demon?
Granny Gihani was always talking about river demons and how they stole small children and cooked them to make spells.

But as he came closer, the voice became so small and ordinary that he began to think that what ever it was; was just as stuck as him and probably just as scared. So taking a deep breath he called back “Talic sends greetings, show yourself friend!” managing to sound very much braver than he felt.

The voice became excited, lots of oohs and ah’s followed. Finally he was grasped and dragged upwards onto a nearby ledge.
Happily his rescuer was not a river demon, just a small wiry man with a rather dirty beard.

“Proper troublesome, here’s I waiting to be rescued and I’s rescuing you!” he chuckled.

Talic who had landed in something slimy and was just trying to remove enough of it to shake hands without squelching too much, was pulled to his feet. He managed a politely soggy. “Thaanks Mr?...... Hhhave you……....been here long?”

“Don’t recon to tell without days and nights, seems long. I’s Pina; don’t got anything to eat I s’pose?”

Talic shook his head but all the time his eyes were fixed on a small battered fishing boat at the back of the ledge. As he half listened to Pina’s rambling on about the inconveinience of being eaten, he
considered their predicament.

“That boat” he said finally “couldn’t we row back up and wait for it to open its mouth?”

“Tried that; oars broke; waters going wrong way.”

“What about giving it belly ach; make it sick? Like Gihani did to me when I’d eaten bad berries.” Talic suggested.

“Tried that, tried gouging, scraping, even built a fire, didn’t do a thing. Expecting you’ll wan’ a try again though just to see.”
*
Talic’s attention wandered to his itchy wrist. The twine!

He pulled, after a couple of arm lengths it stopped. He tested it, it seemed strong. It might have caught somewhere on the way down of course but there was a slight chance that the rest of it was lodged at the back of the crocodile’s throat.

“What about this?” he asked.

“I’s fishing line!” whooped Pina “Where’d find it?”

Talic explained while Pina spluttered excitedly. “Might work, was long, strong too, big hook on end.”

With nothing else to try Pina and Talic clambered into the small boat, wedging their feet under a bar at the front. Talic tightened his grip on the twine.

Pina shunted them unsteadily off the ledge and down the slimy riverbank. Finally they plopped alarmingly into the strange steamy river. Talic pulled, as Pina wound the slack around a sinewy shoulder and elbow and ever so slowly they began to move back along the river.

Eventually after what seemed like hours the current increased slightly and distantly they could see a bright strip of light which widened, then snapped shut with a soggy slap.

“The mouth!” Squealed Talic and began pulling franticly on the twine.
***************************************************
Meanwhile the crocodile prowled the dark shallows of the green gold river. Blinking lazy yellow eyes, he began to feel an uncomfortable itching in his throat. This grew more and more annoying until he had an irresistible urge to cough.

If you’ve never heard a crocodile coughing Talic and Pina would tell you it’s a most unpleasant sound; for he and Pina who’d just arrived in the back of its’ throat found themselves flying out of its mouth and up high into a nearby tree. Delightedly they gulped clean air, hardly believing their luck.

The crocodile snapped its’ jaws and settled down beneath the tree to wait.

Talic, knew his mother would be missing him and began to worry about what would happen if she came looking for him? Besides Pina kept panicking and making the boat shake alarmingly.

Stepping gingerly onto a narrow branch he watched the crocodile snap angrily and move round the tree.

To Pina’s surprise Talic started moving down the tree, till he was just a little higher than the huge crocodile could reach. Then he began to clamber about, shouting wildly and dangling a tempting leg or arm towards its enormous jaws.

The crocodile, still attached to the twine became more and more angry. Circling the tree, twisting and jumping, loops of twine got caught in the lower branches and rapped themselves around its jaws and limbs until it became tightly entangled in the tree. So in spite of its thrashing its tail and flattening a large number of small trees and bushes, and even though it made an awful fuss and a terrible racket, somehow it only succeeded in wrapping itself up even more tightly.

Taking their chance while it lasted, Talic and Pina jumped down into the grass and ran as fast as they could back to their villages.

It would be true to say that when Talic returned, somewhat late for supper and rather smelly and muddy, his mother was less than impressed by the truth of it, in fact he was for a while quite unfairly punished I am sorry to say.

As for Pina, though he was often called on to recount his tale on winter evenings, it was always begged of with a smile and a wink such as might precede the toleration of the ramblings of a much loved but slightly dotty old relative who is prone to wandering slightly in the mind.

However the strangest thing of all is that though no-one ever admitted that they believed Talic and Pina’s story, no-one ever went looking for Talic’s toy ship, or to see if Pina’s boat was still in the tree either.

How do I know this? Well if they had, they like me might have found, that being eaten isn’t nearly as unpleasant as one imagines.

And Now For Something a Little Lighter

2006-01-10T19:55:00.000Z

Documentary

To study the habits of teachers
Pretend you are working
Whilst observing them
Through small holes in books

Make notes of colour changes
Before shouting is heard
Advanced warning of danger!
Or if another teacher they fancy
Comes into the room
Take the opportunity to drop your guard

Teachers usually blush and giggle during courtship
So it’s easy to spot
Watch out for
Good moods
New clothes
Haircuts
Dreamy expressions
Leniency towards small crimes
And a general lack of interest in homework

Careful study will allow us to live in peace with these creatures
Tomorrow we will be studying 'The OFSTED Inspector'

Misunderstood
I hate being a monster mum
The little monster said
I’m scared of other monsters
And I hate it under beds

It hurts when children run away
I jump when people scream
I don’t suit a monster diet
I’d rather have chips and ice cream

I’m allergic to dust and spiders
I need to hold hands in the dark
Who wants to make noises in cupboards?
When they can go play in the park

I guess what I’m trying to say mum
Is I’m different to you and dad
Do you think you could love me as I am?
Cause I’m no good at being bad

Mrs. Brown

Mrs. Brown was unaware
That Tom could see her underwear
He laughed so much that he stopped breathing
And dropped the lolly he was eating

You might think the little fellow
Could be kind enough to tell her
But he’d hated her for years
And cried only laughter’s tears

The sight of someone that he loathed
With skirt tucked in their underclothes
Made the world a better place
Could lead to downfall and disgrace

Mrs. Brown walked tall and vain
Expressed malevolent distain
Though Tom thought her expression flickered
When he shouted “lovely knickers!”

Mrs. Brown began to glow
As all the street saw it was so
Retreating whimpering to her den
As Thomas gloated on revenge

Post Mortem

2006-01-04T16:20:00.000Z

The autopsy revealed
A heart once bright with paint
And pipes clogged and split
By lifetimes of mistakes
Or ghost clocks-fixed faced
Lolling doors uncertain
Yawning mouthfulls of stars
Curtains still hang tattered
Like yesterdays eye makeup
And long for footsteps-candle light
Their mute past laid bare-laid out

A hollow scull of a house
Clinging to earth-the corpse of a dream
A giant anthill torn apart
With wild things creeping
Through cracked panes poison
Oozing through the layers

Hunched under crazed haired trees
Filching bricks to vandalise
Crumbled underfoot they seem to mock
The weakness of the injured beast

Mourners uncomfortable
Of nudity and death
Keep their distance fascinated
Fearing the smell of it
They talk about the weather
Keep their infants close
And whisper do not touch

Christmas Story

2005-12-22T11:54:00.000Z

This is a story I wrote a couple of years ago, but I thought you might all like a Christmas story, So here it is Merry Christmas all and a Happy and peacfull New Year

The girl had a quiet dignity about her, slim fingers cradled her swollen stomach thinly covered by a filthy blue dress, her eyes stared without seeing.

Trolleys rattled past, all action and bustle, overstretched staff sleepwalking their way through the familiar chaotic routines of the run down city hospital.

Like a trapped bird she paced the box of glass and painted steel muttering her silent torments and refusing with a gesture of exasperation a sagging chair offered to her by a lively young nurse.

A broken strip light flickered and crackled as if it contained an angry trapped wasp and a nauseous mingling of strong disinfectant and wax polish pervaded the air.

Dr Bateman looked at the orderly, rubbing his eyes he tried to focus on the problem.

“She can’t be more than sixteen, how many weeks did she say she was?”

“She didn’t, I don’t think she speaks any English, she hasn’t said much but I’d say they’re Arabic or some such.”

He gestured towards the middle aged man slumped in an adjacent chair.

“You say he’s her husband?”

“Well just an impression really, now I think of it.

He well, looks a bit well, old”

The orderly shrugged and left dragging a scuffed and battered wheel chair back up the corridor.

“It’s bitter out tonight.” chipped in the little nurse nervously smoothing imaginary wisps of hair.

“Look it’s an accident and emergency department not a refuge for the homeless and disaffected!”

Her face fell and he hesitated for a moment, then more gently.

“Oh get onto social services then! I don’t want to be the ‘Evil bastard’ who chucked ‘em out to freeze on Christmas Eve.
Where’ve they gone anyway?”

The nurse turned, pushing through the crush of bodies she craned to see two figures slipping through the heavy doors, out into the dark anonymity of the street.

“Leave it” said the doctor, catching her by the arm “There’s more than enough to do here.
Don’t beat yourself up because you can’t change the whole world.”

****************

The street sparkled menacing, grim inhospitable. Windows opaque with frost mistily, proclaimed the season’s greetings in a bawdy procession of coloured tat. Factories and offices slept darkly, their sides a patchwork of lit billboards.

The couple staggered in their hasty flight. He gripping her to him, to prevent her falling.
Distant churches called both the righteous and the winos to midnight mass, crouched in unhappy proximity on waxed Pugh’s, trembling in the glow of candles and archaic glaze.

On the corner of Beteham S.T the girl slumped against the wall with a dull moan. Her face creased with the sharp insistent pains of labour. Her breath came in short bursts hanging in little clouds in the cold air. He looked on helplessly searching the shadows for some ray of hope, a nameless miracle.

Further up the street a door opened grating on unsteady hinges. The figure of an old women squinting into the street- light, limped forward and turned towards the couple. Her frail body struggled forwards in its mishmash of ill-fitting clothing.

“Is she unwell? I heard a noise, can I help?”
Her voice was soft and cultured, belying her tattered appearance.

The man answered in a foreign tongue and gestured desperately towards the girl’s swollen belly. Gently taking the girls other arm she smiled and pointed towards the dimly lit doorway.

Inside was an old mattress, a few worn blankets and an open fire that dimly lit the room.
She bustled about humming softly to herself, then after rapping a blanket about each of them she disappeared through a curtained doorway and returned carrying two chipped mugs of steaming liquid.

“Here slip this down, it will warm you and give you strength.

“Lizzy” She said pointing to her self and smiling.

“Maria!” gasped the girl, her voice tailing off, as another spasm overtook her.

**********************************

Light shone in from the shattered and partly boarded window. The child’s bright inquisitive eyes watched the pigeons busy among the rafters in the flickering shadows.
Curled around him his mother slept on, clasping a tiny finger to her lips.
The steady gaze of the man never left them, eyes soft with tears.

Lizzy built up the small fire still puzzling over the events of the night, a loud tapping on the door leading to the street caused her to stiffen then rise unsteadily to her feet.

Startled awake the girl bunched up her knees and pulled the child still closer.

“Lizzy!” A gentle voice called.

Lizzy’s face lit up.
“Jeffery is that you?”

“Yes Lizzy it’s me.”

“What brought you Jeffery, on so cold a night to visit an old friend?”

The door opened slowly and the room filled with intense silver light.
A tall gaunt figure moved stiffly into the room. He wore the vestments of a priest, worn and thin as his face, eaten away like the life that ebbed from him, but his eyes glowed with purpose.

“The star Lizzy, have you seen the star? It’s like…….” Excited his breath came in dry short gasps the words dieing on his lips as he stared transfixed at the glowing faced infant and his mother, so beautiful and pure in the light, it seemed to radiate from them.

***********************************
Darkness hovered and crept in the dark alleys at the back of Steelem road.
In the icy pools of shadow someone moved. A figure pulled itself up on one arm. Wide eyed he watched the clouds roll angrily in the heavens. Finally they split and were seemingly crushed by shafts of intense light that turned night into day.

“What is it Bert, those lights? I’m scared…… It don’t seem right.”

Bert rubbed his eyes with a tattered sleeve, feeling sure he was dreaming.

“I don’ know Sam” He rasped and exhaled breath rank with stale sickly spirit.

Amongst the sodden cardboard, a hooded figure tried to shake his fuddled head and rouse sensation in his gloved hands. He drew in a sharp painful breath of freezing air and staggered to his feet. His face the colour of ash he strained his eyes to see, half terrified yet fascinated unable to move he stared.

Glowing shapes illuminated the night sky. Radiating from these almost human forms were wavering lines of flame and iridescent colour.

Frozen with fear, Sam began to cry silent tears, was this death, were these his last moments?

But as the strange light touched his face beautiful sounds filtered into his mind.
A quiet stillness, an unfathomable joy and peacefulness, as if a great healing soaked up all the pain and bitter cold of the streets.

The light grew brighter and brighter circling their heads in a wild dance, yet they felt no fear. Just a filling up with sounds so beautiful, more than any music or spoken word could ever be. Light reaching far up into the heavens, so bright now, that they could look no more, shading their eyes cowering once more amongst the damp sodden cardboard.

Milo the last tramp to stand looked out over the wavering half lights of the city. He turned smiling, blinking back unfamiliar tears.
“Follow the star!” he shouted, pointing the glowing firebrand of light hanging over the city. “Follow the star!”
Each silently fell in line, and as they walked from the shadows, more joined them; from allies and doorways; from bed-sits and tenements; from hovels and houses; from the distant woods and canal pathways; from country roads and villages; each looking for an answer and a purpose.

On and on they walked relentlessly, towards the poor mean buildings, bathed in the strange and beautiful light.

************************************

The Prime Minister of England was just sitting down after Christmas lunch with his family when his secretary told him he’d an urgent call.
“There’d better be a good reason for this Smithers,” He shouted rising unsteadily.

Entering his dimly lit office he pushed a large indignant black cat from his polished wooden desk. It spat at him and let out a low dull growl.

“Get out you harpy” He hissed coughing on his after dinner cigar.
Scowling at his secretary he grudgingly snatched the phone.

“What is it Boulingbrook? It had better be good!” He paused then spluttered

“Nonsense, serious politicians can’t be goaded by the tabloid gutter press’s ramblings.” More shaken than he admitted though, he sank slowly on to a plush red chair behind him.

“I don’t care where they say the greatest leader this century will come from, I’m going nowhere on Christmas day.

Haven’t you got a life man?” His hands began to shake and feeling a little queasy he loosened his tie.

“Heavens just let me have a minute to think….

Erm look Bouls’ if you really think this is that important well, if you do find your ‘er well….. Yes whatever!

Well keep me informed so I can make the right kind of overtures.

That’s the ticket good man.

Be sure to come straight back to me on this one now won’t you?

How many men did you say you had on this?

Three was it?

All astrologers eh?

Well get to it man, no time to waste.”

As the phone went dead he had a nagging feeling that Boules might not play him straight on this one.
Staggering unsteadily up from the desk he paused and inhaled deeply on his cigar. The ash fell into his cupped hand and he stared distantly whilst exhaling a cloud of white smoke.

Slowly a smile replaced his blank expression. He became for a second transparent, unmasking a dark form, rotten, putrefying like something long dead, a terrifying image of malevolent hatred. Cupping his face in his hands he struggled with some unseen horror, but when he lifted his face he was once more just a tired old man sitting at a desk.

The secretary took the receiver with shaking hands.

“Stop staring man and get immigration on the phone! Damnable tie” he wrenched it from his neck and flung it at the astonished man.

“Tell ‘em we’ve a problem with some extremely dubious asylum seekers. No, no red tape just a nice quiet job we don’t want any trouble with the press.

Oh and tell M I 5 to get an urgent message to the president.

If things go wrong we might have to get Old Nick re-instated in Iraqi so we can pull off the final faze.

Lets face it Smithers, it’d be damnably hard for me to pull off an execution in this day and age.”

Half Light

2005-12-15T19:11:00.000Z

Below the mirrors of the bridge
Grazing stupored in their paper cups
Lapping the silent mouths of fish
Sipping oil from a broken moon
Listlessly the night chugs past
Whining horns blow cringing notes
Geese-stunted by the city's stench
Retching-heaving factories stare
Blandly at the corpse of sky

Buzzard neon climbs the boards
Bleeding over vagrant trees
Selling lifestyle-beauty-dreams
And death in pale-slim paper sticks
Forlorn, an all too skinny girl
Scratches fish nets laced up boots
Smiling thinly dry and cold
The night’s familiars-patrol her patch
Wolfwhistling beaming cars compete
For an inch of flesh, served up warm
Beneath stale blankets-soiled sheets
Hollow faced switched off at dawn

Morning simpers-banished fog
Swarming down the vacant road
Fingering each pursed letter box
Armed with flowers and pale milk glass
It ploughs the ribs of earth with frost
Till curtains yawn and fix the face
Of respectable suburbia

Daydreams

2005-12-11T12:28:00.000Z

On small days I can’t speak up
My shoulders curl round and round
Like this-to protect me from the ‘Bigs’

I hide in this dream where
Everyone is bigger-better than me
If they shout I will shatter like glass

But on big days my legs bounce like this
And I dance round and round-like this
Smiling down on the world

On big days I can leave my small dreams
Under my pillow because they
Are smaller than the day

After Carol Ann Duffy

2005-12-06T17:56:00.000Z

A poem is not a cabbage
Even if it's really Green

A poem cannot iron a shirt
But who would read an iron ?

A poem cannot catch a bus
But will arrive when riding one

A poem won't drown your sorrow
But sorrow can drown a poem

A poem cannot tell the time
But often helps to pass some

A poem is never embaressed
Even when it is read

Poem Cat

2005-11-30T22:17:00.000Z

this was the very first poem I ever posted on my blog and how it got its name so I thought I'd post it again.

Like velvet syrup
Cat pours down from the shelf
A delicate paw
Ruffling feathers of water silk

A poem wrote this cat
Dipping its self in the cream of her fur
Painting delicate whiskers
On a half seen face

Poem Cat concerns herself with the universe
She tiptoes across the keyboard
To a meeting of great minds
Leaving the dream of cornflower eyes
In jumbles of consenants and vowels

Home Coming

2005-11-24T18:04:00.000Z

Over the top
In a hail of bullets
Lead laced willows
Lurk like monsters
Caught whipping boots keys
As we rattle in to the hall
White fire mist
Warm breath trudged in
Hands burned cold grey
A sullen sky drops its jaw
Takes the day
And walks away
Night shut out
Murmurs restless in the eves
Fanning the paper
Till it smiles and
Curls up in the hearth
As the warm arms of home
Tuck us in for the night

The Garden

2005-11-22T17:53:00.000Z

I never met him
But I'm glad that he lived once
A boy who died
And was remembered
With a garden

There's a little pool
Full of darting fishes
We put in our hands
Turned pale as ghosts

Walls carved like fossils
Painted ice-cream colours
Set with bright shards
Of candy striped glass

But just for today
We shut our eyes
To remember
And wonder how
It feels to die
So young and
Full of Life

Food for Thought

2005-11-11T19:48:00.000Z

I will give you
Sweetpeas
Fluffyyam
Haricotbeans
Wildgarlic
And honeymadesun

I will give you
Sherbet
Strawberries
Vanillapodice
Curryleaves
And midnightplums

I will give you
Brickpepperred
And greenaubergines
With bananasmiles

I will give them to you
Cook me a poem

Blue Elephants

2005-11-01T18:57:00.000Z

Hanging

2005-10-24T09:13:00.000+01:00

Recently when visitig English August ('A's blog)
I saw he had set a write a 55 word poem challenge
so I had a go. If you would also like to feel free to post them here

A pegged out sky
Drenched the trees
With rays of light
Perfect blue

While whispering
Leaves tried to
Spread the word

Beyond time
Cloudless birds
Vault a white plane
Writing its tail
Across the open page

And I sit and wonder
Until Night brings her washing in
Draping the colours
Over strong lean arms

55 word poem

Hafleikr

2005-10-19T21:49:00.000+01:00

This is the house right at the water’s edge, Hafleikr likes it here. She doesn’t fear its cold grey kiss so much as she would the loss of it.

She can sing a charm to call the gulls, when she sings part of her becomes the wind and a little more the mist.

Her eyes change with the seasons and tides. Spring is pearl, henna and coral, summer is sand, amber and aqua marine autumn is honey topaz and jet, winter is cloud, ice and jasper, but at night they are always the same, at night they are always full of stars.

Though she wears a delicate shell and takes her food from the land, she is strong and lithe. One touch of those slender fingers and the soil bursts forth with flowers and fruits. I have seen them grow just to reach out and caress a lock of her long wild hair.

She didn’t think I knew about her dreams, she hid them well beneath her eyes. But I know they are there because when she sleeps she talks of them and her spirit walks out and is hungry for the damp stones and the grey sea full of stars. I have seen her calling to the moon and I have seen the moon listen.

Once she whispered all night and made a fog that saved the beast. The sea is hers too, it cares for the great seahorses and covers the coils of the beast and like a lover it will wrap its self around her.

When men come and try to kill her beast she whispers up a fog that fills the whole bay, and keeps on whispering and whispering until the boat and the men disappear.

Look there are her footprints, I have told you I have seen all this. Go and look, you too may see wonders you never imagined or dreamed of. Fall into those eyes too you will see all.
You will sup at her table and the food will be like nothing you ever tasted. So clean and full like food from the beginning of time. Go, she will whisper you a fog, charm the birds and call the sun awake in the middle of the night. You will know great pleasure with her and you will see the world as if anew.

But remember this when you hear the voices of seahorses out in the darkness, you’ll wake only to a cold shadow drifting across the room.

Sitting for hours eaten up with worry, counting the ticks of the clock and the waves lashing the frail door, you will not by then be able to live without her. You will dream only of her eyes, all other food will be tainted. You will be sick for the want of her and no amount of her company will reduce your longing. Your hunger for her will increase with each caress and you will feel the total dread of the lack of her presence. Your pain will become unbearable, you will never have felt its like and it will only get worse.

But have a care, though you will feel such longing and terror at the mere thought of her absence, never follow her into her dreams. For her sea beast is wild and jealous. Perhaps he too feels something of a similar pain and longing.

I could tell you of the paths darkness that night, my last with her, though I didn’t know it then. I could tell of the moon that caught me out, straight after she had called it. I had heard the voices of seahorses before I was luckier then, but not that night. No that night I was caught in its brightness.

I could tell of the look of love in her eyes, like the one I had always hoped to see there among the stars, the words falling from her mouth like pebbles and the beast taking them and caressed them as if they were her lips.
I could tell you how he turned and I could see his pain and that it matched my own and that he knew then that I was the one who shared her.

I could tell you when he smiled that’s when I feared him most, the pain was still inside that smile and it was terrifying. Or that, that’s how he knew the worst thing that could happen, the worst punishment.

I could tell you how it hurt her too, how he made her look away, each tear made the ground tremble.

I could tell you, but you’re not listening are you?

I know the signs.

Off you go then, learn the hard way. I see your point, after all who would listen now?

Now I’m just a pebble on the beach?

Granny's Magic

2005-10-14T18:44:00.000+01:00

Granny always told me about the magic
It always started with a warm safe feeling
The feeling that comes from being loved
Climbing on clouds pulled by silver unicorns
Calling the spring
In a dawn light as crystal
Balmy as sugar syrup I stirred in my sleep
Smelling the fresh baked bread on her table
Listened to the lullabies sung by the river

Her voice made of butterflies and sunlight
Soothed me to sleep
Until the unicorns faded yawning
Into the whispering sea of morning
And butterflies settled into coloured rainbows

Now I remember Granny’s voice in magic dreams
And how she could always make the bad things vanish.

Blackbird Summer

2005-10-06T19:29:00.000+01:00

Out on the pavement hand
in hand safe, Dad’s dry, course
a working man, Gently he
pulls me up in the lift
of an arm, and holds up
a finger pausing lips
We smile a breathless conspiracy

Almost invisible on
the brash torn road a young
blackbird: beak shining a
perfect yellow. Polished
inky feathers. Eyes bright
skipping the skinny oil puddles

The performer stops and
eagerly adjusts his coat

Fresh from a dust toilet
he shoots up flickering
high in the hot blue sky.
Celebrating with harsh
and scolding notes, wild he
circles our beached limbs
desperate for applause.
Heckling the curtain calls
he departs the pantomime

The Oyster Catcher

2005-10-02T18:23:00.000+01:00

At the edge of the ocean
Where salty waves
Slap sulky tongues
Against reluctant stone
An old man
Tied with brown paper
Water marked
Pulled in with gnarled string
Webbed handed nets
A shanty boat tethered
Fettered by a rusting ring

Been fiddling again

2005-09-26T05:28:00.000+01:00

Another shape poem bites the dust never mind it sort of works like this, may fiddle with it later.

November

Golden
Flowers
Bloom in the sky spreading lace like
Till they drop fire flies
Biting
the
back of my throat jacket potato fog
a Catherine wheel drills

Through
Sulphur
Toffee smoking breath jumps out
in shouts and squeals
The
shapes
of people skipping fire tongues mad as
moths waving sparkling wands

That
fizzel
and plop into buckets that gasp. Soup
by the trestle load. Raw

Kneed
Boy
Scouts scrawl messy signs and offer tissue fists of hotdog

Glide
Steaming
clouds of onion. Coins clinking, hats pulled further down

Only the Guy prays for rain
He doesn’t know that it always rains

24 Hours

When you polished your long black boots
You smudged his face
With a dull heel print
The face with sad dark eyes
Yesterday it was news

In the mirror your eyes gleam with blue powder
All curled lashes
Hair tongues fresh
Skin and ebony hair
In a flick of red enamel
Newspaper and cotton wool
Shoved in a black bin liner
Like the one his mother buried him in

Doing Time

2005-09-17T11:05:00.000+01:00

It was just a branch
Or so I thought
May confetti kissed my hair

I didn't know

'The wrongness'

I didn't know

'The badness'

So clasping its coolness
I danced a fine jig

Smashing through my lip
A voice came and stabbed me
Chest lurching
From the air
A heavy hand upon my neck

The yard all empty
Red with words
All angry
Beating down
Like sharp hot rain
Till my eyes burst open
With criminal offence
The evil swinging of a tree
Could only lead to worse

Destined for a life of crime
I trembled by the door
reserved for-miscreants
and malcontents
The clock kept ticking
Through the screaming voices
That wondered how
A slipper felt?
And what lurked there
called 'THE HEAD'?

And lest I should escape
The hand still-heavy on my neck

Older and bigger now
I'm called down to school
About my little one
Heart in mouth........
The clock keeps ticking

Nervous

Voices

In

My

Head

Outside-another-door
I feel myself tremble
And lest I should escape
The hand still-heavy on my neck

Notes for Pupils

2005-09-12T20:23:00.000+01:00

As from the beginning of term
Talking
Sniggering
Chatting
And loud breathing will be banned

As will:
Scribbling notes
Inappropriate use of imagination
Smug expressions
Knowing looks
Sign Language
Thinking you know it all
Thinking
Not being amused by your teacher’s jokes
Chewing
Looking as if you're chewing
Redesigning your uniform
To reflect a possible personality
Dreaming about being someone else
Dreaming about being somewhere else
Students

The following will be aloud in moderation:

Intelligence may be displayed
as long as not accompanied by
anything of a rebellious nature
such as questions

The offensive and probing nature of questions
must always be considered, but if in doubt don't
discuss it among yourselves. (see chatting)

It is worth noting that teachers with a straight
mouth are usually struggling to control the urge to kill

Take this as a warning and even if you don't know what you've done
Stop doing it now

Famous

2005-09-07T20:39:00.000+01:00

For a while when I was little
I was famous
All my relatives queued
To see how tiny I was.
My acrobatic crawling,
Reported down the phone
To every family member
Walking was no less well received.
My first words so profound
I was called upon to speak
At every celebration
And I always got applause.
When I sang
Silence fell about the room
I performed endlessly
And always got rave reviews.

But it seems fame
Is a fickle thing?
Today you asked me to be quiet
So you could watch the telly?

Warm Arms

2005-08-25T21:25:00.000+01:00

She pressed her tiny back into the hard window frame. The curtains shivered across the sill and outside, a shadow tree whipped a wild dance against the copper sky.

Dark crept slowly towards her, a hovering cloak swallowing the last glowing drops of honey. Dark sliding gently around her slim shoulders, a mask that faded lines and washed away the colour with fine ash. A dark that suffocated and whispered, stretching deep inside.

Sitting hunched, already she could feel the gentle rhythm of the night, its breath warm in her ears the closeness of the secret place that held her rigid in its grip.

She knew the sound she strained to hear, over the restless breeze, over deafening silence, over rivers of words racing through her, each tendon stretched, nipped, waiting, waiting…..

Sleep hung like a terrible presence, heavy, pressing, insistent it called, faithless in its promise of oblivion. Velvet warm, like her mother’s arms, arms that dried like powder at a touch with soft eyes that fell back into the dark.

She listened, there it was a voice crying, somewhere distant the echo of footsteps always a little ahead. Round her head floated words never spoken, a last chance always in the distance a faint promise unfulfilled.

She watched as the door slid quietly open, soft grey moonlight made a ghost of her mother, with tears softly falling and lips moving words unspoken, whispered only to the night.

Her breath caught in her throat, it was all longing for a soft caress, the kiss of warm tears, warm arms. It pressed her forward right to the edge, the edge of the sill. She willed her hand to reach out, pale in the grey moon shining, legs so heavy, wooden like the cold stiff lip of the sill.
Shrinking back into the shadows she held close the dream of warm arms.

She could have called out, nearly did, the words almost hovering on her lips, then she remembered……….

Her mother’s eyes held no warmth, deep water floating slowly through her.

What did she see out there, out in the dark, dark sky?

And sleep, sleep would never come again or dreams. She stirred restless on the sill, dreams she remembered dreams, dreams of her mother’s tears on a summers evening where dark had crept slowly towards her. An evening so warm the window was just a little open and the breeze that hung sweet and heavy with roses.

She had only leaned a little on the glass and seen darkness pressed hard against the wood, cool on her face. Pressing forward to make out the faded colours, close to the edge of the sill. And dark, dark like a cloak had swallowed her.

She fell so gently so delicate like a doll she thought, the breeze silent and such small drops of warm dark blood.

How she longed for those warm arms and last words unspoken, silent tears on the windowsill. And now, now she would stay here forever but no-one it seemed would know.

Green

2005-08-21T20:28:00.000+01:00

For Gulnaz

He left on Wednesday
After kissing her sweetly
She didn’t see it coming
He never said goodbye
She stayed in the dark
He had never liked the sun

His small white face
Laying still on the pillow
Tubes kept it warm
But even to her
It was clear he’d gone

He sent her messages at first
Green had always been
Her favourite colour
He left them in her shoes
Green raffia
Delicate runes
Like the veins of an old man

She thought them leaves
Scattered by the wind

He sent her more
Cradled in the brown
Gnarled twigs of his tears
Peacock feathers moss
Emeralds forest floors
Whole galaxies of green
The size of daisies

She looked sadly in the mirror
And brushed them from her hair

Each night he called her
Drawing shadows on the lawn
Alone in the darkness
Leaving her gifts
The last said he was sorry
And that he couldn’t stay

A mixed bag

2005-08-20T18:51:00.000+01:00

It's been a busy week catching up with everything after the holidays, and I am soon off again for a long weekend with my mum. Just to Whitby but it should be nice perhaps I'll do some painting, its been a while. So for the time being some more poems. The last one feels like it comes from a children's story, mabey I will write one.Rock pool is a shape poem and got first prize at Harrogate writers Circle and the first one was a holiday poem.

Siesta

Busy temple ants sift the clogging sod
Dappled armoured industry
Flesh takes its ease
Rough yet alive
Sensation its own reality
Ribbons of wild garlic
Paint tongues of sweet sickly caramel
Among the grasses that pinch and prod

Rock Pool

Coral knights about the rocks
Mark sideward march towards the sea
As tiny stars scale tower blocks
Beyond a carmine feather tree
Sly tinker, hermit scuppers dust
Into its jet and jasper box
Blasting iron butterflies
Who picket in the raging froth.

Po Kalo the Monkey King

In the inky cloak of jungle
Lurks a shadow devil
Po Kalo the monkey king
Calls all to his revels

King of the fallen city
Where his wild companions play
Mocking the men who used him
And took his lands away

Theft is his provider
Mischief his best friend
Since he cursed his brothers
To violence and revenge

Wearily at sunrise
Their ranks are called to fool
Capering for tourists
Scavenging for food

Tempers are explosive
Skilled clowns they play the crowd
Awaiting the sign for mutiny
Veiled Malevolent and foul

High on a shattered pillar
A tiny manic form
Po Kalo the monkey king
Stirs up his silent storm

Home Again

2005-08-15T19:44:00.000+01:00

Well home again, home again, to inside plumbing and walls without zips,
grey skies and drizzle. Boo-hoo! Still looking forward to catching up with everyone,
for now some poems and hopefully some pictures to follow

Moonstruck

Moon milk festoons
The dark shoves a man in
Gravel rattles
Sun flowers
Moonstones

Close Up

The patter of the base line
Taps the foot of the golden boy
Who once clasped my thumb
With hands the size of walnuts

I smile at his blundered French
Eyes locked in the slender girl
Neither speak the others language
But both understand

Leaning across

He breathes her like expensive
Perfume, a gesture, both desperate
To look cool, teasing-clowning
Held rigid

in another universe

Almost a kiss apart, they wake
As if caught, Children again
She smiles and steals his hat
A lumbering puppy and a dancing gazelle

Holidays at Last

2005-08-03T13:34:00.000+01:00

Well we're off to Brittany, camping, should be fun
brother Steve has kindley agreed to baby sit
rabbits cats dog and fish. Brave man, will be
writing lots I hope and back in time to have a
rest and plan work-shops for Autumn term.
Have fun everyone, I look forward to
catching up when I return.

Love All

Eve

2005-07-28T18:10:00.000+01:00

In the beginning
From a box
He pulled buff clay
And spun a ball
So vast it swallowed me

I slept numbly
curled tight
blind in the burning
alien sun. I listened
to the distant thunder
Land splitting the virgin sea

Silence so loud
It danced
to the beat
Of my new heart
The first rains
Kissed me; full upon the mouth

Plants stretched out
Yawning
I could hear
Them speak, how it hurt
this birth. He told me
once, it only cost him a rib

The apple? Well
after that
We couldn’t hear the trees,
Strange how you miss the simple things
Even the serpent was silent
and the rain? The rain was only wet

Blue Feathers

2005-07-26T18:29:00.000+01:00

There's a window in the lobby
Showing only her best side
The flawless precision
Of a false smile
She kept in her Dior purse

For many years I didn't know this
A dull sparrow who dreamt
Of blue feathers to hide
Guilty bitten nails
From scrutiny’s reflection

Each day each part was somehow less
Till I became a shape to
Hang her daggers from
The lead roll
In my grey existence

Sadly then as now I can't compete
I who was not even picked
To play, and now unless
Our paths cross
She will stay forever young

The Weaver of Words

2005-07-23T16:07:00.000+01:00

Nicole, your words on the last post
set me thinking and turned into a poem.

The Weaver of Words

Wind’s voice rattles clouds
Carrying the songs
Of the weaver of words
Fingers coarsened polished
To the point of a needle
Winding dazzling Ls
From skeins of silk
‘Skilfully’ she weaves
From an apes fist
‘Deceit’ from spider tears
Deftly her fingers dance
‘Azure’ ‘cornflower’
Float towards the sky
Catching a thread she joins
Consonants to vowels
Whispers them to the wind
And into the souls of men.

Butter Wood

2005-07-21T21:07:00.000+01:00

Through lanes and tracks
skipping a dusty path
the sun's warm breath
caressing limbs
till gilded pink and gold
we hovered like lazy bees
in the lane we felt the fever
of clover-mead, wild with a
taste of fox glove stroking
the flanks of idle cows

Down to the murky pool of yellow
butter. Cupping our hands
to hold its secret treasure
Whilst muddy eyes on guard
Retreat, growling
insults in a foreign tounge

Mud

2005-07-16T20:05:00.000+01:00

It was the mud I spose
Strange what a bit of dirt
Could make you think
He knows I don't like the stuff
That's how I knew my floor
Is always smooth and clean
And smells pine fresh.
His boots bounced their remains
rattling across. I felt
assaulted-horrified
But then he wanted to get out
Before I had the time to ask
Normally so quiet. I sometimes
Wonder what he thinks about

The next day I found him
In the shed. He'd a look
About him then
Haunted but more than that
like he was totting up
the next time
That he could take a breath.

Then there was the shirt
New it was. Stuffed in a can
Under a pot. The dark brown marks
Took some getting out
I wonder what he thought
When he found it
Hung and pressed

Someone did come as it was
Got biscuit crumbs
All over the couch
Asked a lot of strange questions
Said I don't know what he does
Except make a mess
We've lived like that
For years. I keep a good clean
House. Then I vacuumed round
His feet. Just to make the point
Till he took the hint
And dropped it in the cup.

They took him the next day
Sirens flashing
All the curtains twitched
So I took to cleaning up
Outside. With such an attach
Of suds and raw hands
I felt better after that

Tagged By Gulnaz

2005-07-11T18:42:00.000+01:00

Top Five Things I Miss About My Childhood

1)My red wellies and lylac jumper, I loved them so much my mum had to sneak them away at night to wash them. I was heart broken when I grew out of them.

2)Making food out of mud and enjoying every minute of it. We our gang had a sort of den on the railway bank, which was right next to our house. In the summer it used to be so overgrown they used to have to burn it back. But until they did, it was our jungle, desert island, different planet anything at all. We made mud food in an old pan, slid down the bank on an old vacume body and hung up complex mechanisms to deter baddies. As a parent I'm surprised our parents trusted us to play there, but they had told us that if we went within three yards of the top of the bank, any passing train would suck us in with its powerfull underdraft. Naturally we never tested the theory.

3)My panda bear, I had it for years untill it became so smelly and unwashable that my parents gave me a choice, either keep it but have a new clean one for bed time or they knew a lady who could re-cover her for me( yes she was a girl). Being totaly gulable I opted for the re-cover. I still haven't forgiven my mum for telling me what really happend Iwas (in my twenties), I was devistated.(however you spell that)

4)My dad reciting poems and stories to me (not unlike you Gulnaz)he too has a wonderful speaking voice and the lovely glowing feeling that closeness of a cuddle and a really good orator, (you know what I mean). Magic, I carried it on with my children and hence wrote and illustrated a whole book for them. When they were young the'd come in and say we're doing islands at school write a poem islands and do a picture of us and our mates on one for tomorrow. I think they just thought that was a normal thing to ask your mum.

5) My Nana, we were very close and I once was allowd to spend a whole week with her when I was about eight. All on my own, no smelly brother. She was very beautiful for her age and I remember years later on my wedding morning thinking if I could just look like that when I'm old I won't complain. Sadly she died when I was pregnant with my first child so she never met my children. But I felt like a little of her came back to me in my son. Sorry didn't mean to bring everyone down

Sprung

2005-07-06T20:08:00.000+01:00

Pale walls meander
over gorse scrubbed by the sun
The sky scatters drifts
Picking at the canopy of slab

I hang my eyes out to dry
My soul drifts up over
The lip of crag, I fly
with the eagle and wolf

I flicker, one with the dust
Then rushed-recoiled-snapped
pulled back
To the dark inside my head

Sundays

2005-07-06T19:43:00.000+01:00

You smiled and the blue sky
floated round in silver pieces
the air tasted sweet
and the colours passed through me
Raining from the stars
Each had a flavour
A feeling
Each had a bigger smile

The sun walked with me
Streaching, living
Voicing its golden words
It kissed the land
It trickeling
Into the warm arms of night
Bathing the sky in burning rays of fire

I woke to grey sky
Hanging from my head
Dragging back my hair
My heart was heavy
Swallowed by the stones

You turned out the light
And made me close my eyes
When the sun rose
It was a dry hard biscuit

After Sleeping

2005-07-04T19:47:00.000+01:00

Spring flowered late again this year
Shy, swathed in the pursed lips of leaves
Creped bulbs spitting patchworks
Through the lawn’s neat manicured poise.

Sun burst the ponderous blue rinsed clouds
And we wandered lost in fields of flowers.
Mosaic and tundra’s lay in soft water colours
The exotic-scented-fragrant
Drifting out
Stealing a passage on the air

Even the warm rain washing clean
The bones of paths
Or hung like pearls about the trees
We greeted you smiling like children
Still half glowing with sleep

Transubstantiation

2005-06-28T19:00:00.000+01:00

Slumped by the
pool she let
hold her face
Rising from
among the
rocks and weeds
a hand reached

Lingering
Beckoning
Calling her
Down into
cool, cool water

Hand in hand
two dancers
they swam
Kissing the
feathered feet
of boatmen
Nipping at
the spinning
blossem tresses
Cast by ghosts
of trees

Skin dappled
wearing the
rich textures
of earth.
Coils of land
slipped away
loosening
their grip
Weightless she
forgot her legs

In the spring
she found a
lover amber
eyed and a
broad stiff snout

2005-06-24T22:08:00.001+01:00

2005-06-24T22:08:00.000+01:00