The Sound of Guns

Parricide is not pretty,

but in a time of swallowed splinters,

there emerges a new confidence,

and no one is safe from

the absolute certainty of the Crack.

.

When anger is awake and ungoverned

the Almighty Metal Guru draws near to tease.

The wheel turns as young wreakers and hoakers,

already tucking boredom in their belts,

dash through familial barriers

straight into the Crack’s improbable deathhole.

.

Suddenly, we are all prey:

heavy weights flailing and falling

past previously pitted lives

towards our own bloody demise.

.

Unable to climb smooth surfaces

society begins to fester,

scraping the walls with botulinal nails;

kicking itself with blister boots.

.

Oh, those ugly days of lost heritage;

elders supping tears together, whilst

so many futures are crossed

by the star thin silver reticle

of the Almighty Crack.

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The Inside

I have done a lot of thinking

about the inside of things.

.

Today I built a dome

one foot square

and solid snow.

.

Inside were the animals

I would have made

if the snow didn’t

get stuck on my gloves

and crumble in my hands.

.

 a moose

and a mole

.

The moose had long, strong legs

and an intelligent, wet nose.

He put his head down

into the snow

and nuzzled

until he found a piece of green,

then chewed thoughtfully

whilst contemplating the upstairs window.

He seemed surprised

that humans

have such long legs

they need windows that high up.

.

The mole poked his snowy bonce

out of the tired ground

and peered with blind eyes

upon the bright sky.

I think he was glad

I would have made him.

.

I have thought a lot

about the inside of things.

Fire

Marking our winters together,

first up in the morning checks the embers,

so any vital signs might be rekindled.

.

Failing that, I journey out to fetch the coal,

perhaps a well seasoned cherry log, our treat,

odour – vermillion. Slipper shod round to the shed,

contemplating cold patterned leavings in the snow.

.

I consider the teeth clenched path; you warm in tangled bed,

then, lamenting the lazy left last time bucket,

slide down to empty tinker crunch ash,

playing the ice orchestra and wishing above all for wellies.

.

Darling, the clinker hill reaches the sky,

in far off spring we will push it down

to the ditch below the snow line,

between where we live and the cows.

.

Swinging up to the house to scrunch last week’s news,

I lay morning sticks crackling from an orange string bag,

then sparingly, the coal, but leave room for breath.

Striking a match I turn on the life support, a tender touch paper,

sharing the conviction that our winter child will thrive.

Sleepers

We are brickless, backless turtles ridden by nightmares;

nemesis of ideals, monstrous victims of blind eyes,

walked upon inadvertently by vulnerable feet.

.

Keen-edged conceit is a knife that steals amongst us,

slashing our flimsy shelters with its silver tongue,

so we must run out shivering in the rain.

Oh Henry!

Oh Henry dear, what have you done?

I always thought that we had fun,

unwinding, zapping dusty ground

under beds and round and round,

you’ve never let me down before,

I’ve always had a dust free floor,

but now you’ve silted up inside

and when I looked I could have cried,

you used to be the cleanest here

but now you’ve lost that crown I fear,

you’ve really made a frightful mess

I hope we don’t have fussy guests,

for underneath your shiny smile

your belly bag burst and left a pile!

Chemo Café

We all have our favourite seat

the men and women that I meet

whilst mermaids smile and serve us tea

and feed us intravenously.

.

In this cheery place of mine

bare arms are soaked into a shine

then wares are touted on a tray

the best we take the less to pay.

.

In this lively, loving place

anxiety etched on every face

my comfort is a cushioned chair

a pillow and designer hair.

.

In this café where I go

Life’s mélange is all on show:

black coffee corners of our minds

tenacity and mermaids kind.

Mother

When this apple tree is axed and carted to the yard

its old leaves stripped, its twisted branches cut and carved;

when birds and errant squirrels are summarily dismissed,

and mistletoe is torn and puckered lips unkissed;

somewhere beyond the function of its analytic brain

beneath the anxious beating of its heart, the alignment of its grain

we will get down to the nub, that grande dam the tree would be,

except artful years bore sweetest fruit contorting destiny.

On Writing

Sweet words chew me

like tooth-clagging sticky toffee

in their luke warm ink shower.

Poetry addicts, they get in the flow,

spilling me out more tastily

than life intended. It is in their interest:

these gourmandising friends are wise advisers,

but their candy grabber misses often,

only occasionally dropping good.

Thaw

Forgotten

in locked allotments

bracing brass monkey feet

she

dug

deep

with clenched teeth

through frozen clods

customarily turning over old leaves

 until

she                                                                     slipped

and gripping glass

g

u

i

l

l

o

t

i

n

e

d

her pinkie finger tip.

.

As shock welled

to fill iced water butts

she saw her isolation reflected hard as winter

and lifting her mangled digit

in surrender

staggered bleeding to the gate.

Rainbow

Today, in the town squares of all great cities

around this beautiful globe,

we will, by common consent,  remove divisive flags

hung by history’s tainted shreds of angry pride;

folding them away like old aunty’s table cloths.

.

And see draped instead, from mountain heights,

a more fantastic sight; our real heritage.

Reflective of all earth’s passion and intensity

absorbing in amazement all our pain,

this is our rainbow – and the music of a shared song.