Lack of money hurts
In the cupboard sits one meal
Nourishment is there
Poetry
#napowrimo Day Three – Virus (impressionistic, after a documentary)
the elevator is crowded
push has come to shove
clutching bags stuffed full
of toilet rolls and gloves
the lights in the halls of the mall
flash an ultra-violet glow
a false protection against
a death that can’t be seen
the bulletin boards above us
pulse the word disaster
in letters ten feet tall
everyone looks the same
behind their protective masks
a man drops down ahead of me
he places his hand on his heart
the clamouring crowds depart
a few take photographs
as he speaks aloud from his knees
he is only praying
his prayers are all for them
napowrimo day 2 – If I was a Woman
If I was a woman I’d want to be
a woman who has a room of her own
I would want to be left alone here to write
and snuggle up warm in our bed every night
I’d write a thousand words every day
while outside our children laugh as they play
with the man who agrees it should be this way
I wouldn’t cook or clean up the house
I might make soup while I think about life
My man would be kind and funny and smart
He’d be happy to know that I am his wife
He would fulfil my loyal loving heart
He would love me and keep me and let me free
If I was a woman I’d want to be
A woman who’s loved by a man who’s like me
#napowrimo Day One – not inspired – here be nonsense
wash your hands
where there is no water
sit yourself down
at the table on bones
rest your head
where the trees are bent over
the land is flat
the clouds are too low
when you see yourself
in a fogged up mirror
you may see clearly
grow true and bold
or give up
your foolish complaints
and chatter
before you grow small
diminished
and old
An update
I have returned to University to study Creative Writing and English Literature and am very much enjoying the course. I do not publish my University work here. I need to keep it more ‘under my hat.’ For this reason, I will be posting less work here than formerly but I will post all poems written during National Poetry Month each April – one poem a day. I will also change direction a little here and post interesting articles and recommendations for reading. So I am not actually leaving. If you like my writing you will find loads in my archives which go all the way back to 2014. To find archives look on the right and scroll down.
Smashed Glass
She is screaming out in the street again, a crying toddler in her arms. He has tried walking away several times, but he keeps going back to answer her accusations. The kid is crying. They go out of sight towards their house. I hear bin lids crashing and broken glass. Those two look a match for each other.
Worried about the child more than anything, I call the police. An impersonal voice takes details. I explain what I have seen. I say a toddler is at risk. I give all the details twice.
I say, ‘They have gone out of sight now, while we have been talking. Gone back to their house.’
‘You have an address?’
‘No, I don’t. I’m not sure which house is theirs. There are three or four houses in a row. It could be any of them. The back gates are all obscured by trees. So no, I don’t know.’
‘We can do nothing then. Call us again if they come back outside.’
She hangs up on me before I can protest.
Nothing more happens. Not that day. Soon the lamps are on and the street is quiet. I watch the lights flashing and blinking and changing colours on a Christmas tree in a window across the street. I don’t really have room for one in my place.
Next day, early evening, I go downstairs and outside. The broken glass turns out to be a smashed light globe on the edge of the communal garden for our block of flats.
‘I saw that little shit deliberately hit it as he walked by,’ Eva says. She shrugs as if to say it’s normal. ‘Now the landlords probably won’t replace it for months, like everything else around here.’
‘I was worried about the toddler,’ I say, trying to refocus the conversation onto my main concern.
Eva looks at me as if I am from another planet and says, ‘Yeh, well that one will grow up to be a shit too.’
I open my mouth to answer and think ‘What’s the point.’ I know she is a racist. Her Carer is from Jamaica. Eva is nice enough to her face. But that’s not what I have heard her saying to neighbours, calling her a monkey.
You can’t convert total idiots. Especially the ones over eighty. She isn’t my generation. She won’t change now. No point even worrying about her opinions. Not everyone over eighty is a fool, thank god. My mother wasn’t.
I go back to my apartment. The street is empty now and silent. The streetlamps blur as I look at them, my eyes misting over with the held back tears of frustration.
Apologies BUT…..
Although I haven’t posted much on here lately (because I am studying Eng Lit and Creative Writing) it’s not long now until napowrimo starts on April 1st (National Poetry Month) where I annually pledge to write one new poem a day each day in April. Then I will be FORCED to write :)
If you would like to take up the same challenge keep a watch on this website http://www.napowrimo.net/
If I write a poem before then I will post it here of course. The muse hasn’t run off to the woods – she just knows I am busy (writing essays, fulfilling assignments and reading). Even in lockdown there is never enough time.
Olive Oil
through passage-ways in shaded morning
heeding not the subtle warning
of the burning sun to come
I follow you as best I can
after all, you are the man
all we explore is known to you
to me it’s strange
though once before I wandered here
in some dreams I had alone
and so I feel it is my home
we pass the mosques where people pray
we pass the dates and figs piled high
I catch a glimpse of you ahead
if we are parted by the crowd
will I be lost or only free?
your words repeating in my head
‘go to the cafe by the door
wait for me if you are lost
ignore the crush, meet me at the olive oil,
there beside the beggars gate’
oil to soothe?
oil to blend?
oil to smooth a slippery path?
oil to heal your ravaged skin?
I turn away
I turn and walk the other way.
She is
gentle as a breeze, she is
after summer rain
i watch her blossoms fall
warm and tender then, she is
hot as summer days
when heat consumes the grass
encircled by my heart, she is
and when she isn’t here
I stir in bed all night
blossoms fall
heat consumes
ah! my beating heart
Stones in a room
A collection of seven small horses have been gathered into a herd. I dust them when I must but rarely change their positions. Quite often I dust them too late.
There is another horse in this room, a tired horse in a painting, ridden by a knight. His armour has turned to rust. The horse has a drooping head. The knight is reading a gravestone with words I can’t translate.
The plants here are all artificial. I am not sure when that happened, but I confess to finding it sad. There are far too many cushions. There are books all over the place. There are stones I have silently gathered, each from a special place.
The Dreaming Path 