It isn’t the door, it is the knock.
It is the time, not the clock.
Don’t let the winds choose where your ship will dock.
As one begun as though, and so,
The two and fro
And three and free,
And for something and against something,
Fists are five wrapped and trapped.
Let’s hear it for the never clapped.
Enjoy the silence when you’ve been slapped.
It isn’t the gore, it is the shock.
It is the climb, not the rock.
Silhouettes turn shadows loose as your hips unlock.
Jazz drums run through sorrow and woe,
Contraband thoughts are stowed,
Abductees of sanity.
The bottom of her forearms rest along the sides of her bath.
The bottom of her tongue rests in her mouth.
Her bottom she rests in the bottom of her raft.
This is no place for a scarf.
She turns on the hot tap.
Smoke says its long goodbye to the wick.
This ode is not to herald news of tomorrow,
Wandering tales of colourful geckos.
The future we are not here to borrow,
And no yesterday’s am I here to echo.
Mrs. Frey, ageing supply teacher,
Tuts, through her disgruntled coalition of teeth.
Her lips part like sisters who never got along.
She controls the gas.
Poppy is turning 16 as she holds the base of the Bunsen burner.
The blue flame and its consistent growl, cools, as she cuts off it’s oxygen.
Mid-wank Nina realises she has never tried to remember the name of her childhood rabbit.
Names aren’t important to Nina, except hers.
Nina thinks Nina, sounds like a siren.
She pushes her confidence through crowds on a stretcher attached to a sauvignon drip.
Snowplowing through un-casual drinks.
Spring casts off winters concealment,
Apollo and Earths heady achievement.
Plants wipe away their dewy tears,
The larks they finds our grateful ears.
Colours sing in loudest their voice,
As the buds they do rejoice.
Two Tuscan hares, lie back and wheeze on the Suffolk air.
“One day we’ll learn to fight properly”, says Alex after their annual sparring.
“I might move back to Old Country” says Tony.
Alex ponders whether,
if he saw himself hopping through this field, he’d see an immigrant;
He’s never been to Europe. Would they even want him there?
His ears stand up, like clandestine lovers who’ve been rumbled.
There is barking in the distance.
Ink crawls out of its afternoon puddle and onto her to do list
The street spits its phlegm at the glass facade
Of the little gallery at 83
A special delivery scheduled for lunchtime
Well, “between 12 and 4”
It’s the fragile portrait
A framed opinion on reflection
It’s what she’s been waiting for.
The little coffee shop bell, tingles down my spine.
Door hinges disagree with one another,
Squawking like angry crows.
The bored barista thinks about his audition,
When will they be handing me a macchiato, he wonders.
A mustached accent with an idiot attached says nothing. Loudly.
(This poem was written for The Listeners Project where the brief is to respond to a space that is about be demolished or changed. The Adel Rootstein Mannequin Factory at dusk was the creepy setting for my piece. It had been opened 57 years previous.
Here is the link to video: https://vimeo.com/197206852)
The rusty hands of time stop,
As he enters the room.
Quin the man – the malaprop
The ice winks in the glass
Warm thoughts freckle my shoulders
My mind melts into my veins
Eyes shutter close
As nostalgia has a lock-in
Painted smiles chuckle around the bar
Filled with familiar faces of people I have never met
Bottles, who spirit is judged on emptiness
Line up, in front of an oily mirror
One is charged and taken for further investigation
In it’s place, a reflection of you
Glimmering under a paper moon Continue reading
Your urbane strides
Topped with a knowing countenance
Covered in butterscotch skin
Browned by your light.
Is it their emotion that scares you?
All those red shoes dancing the blues
What!? Not connoisseurs?
Shafts of dusty dawn light poke you in the eye
An image, a flash but no recollection why
Your hair hugs your brain too tightly,
But from the prison of sleep you are just a parolee.
He plays it as a blessing but knows it as a curse,
The Charlatan knows his lines but he does not own the verse.
Borrowed flesh illuminates the projection,
A carcass, the scale of the reflection.
Sartorial ancestors of the preppy,
Could hear the twenties roar along that shore.
Moments of joy, who knows if happy?
Where battles rage in that time post-war.
(NB. This was written for my friends and is about the first weekend I spent in Barcelona away from them. Anything capitalised is a name or a nickname of a friend.)
Here goes this ode, I hope more than reviewing,
First Friday in Barca and this Teapot is brewing,
And although I am missing my favorite Mug
This electric city is the socket for my plug.
A black and white bar receipt,
From a moment in the grey.
Reminder of the beat
Of when you were carrying on your way.