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.
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.
and a mole
The moose had long, strong legs
and an intelligent, wet nose.
He put his head down
into the snow
until he found a piece of green,
then chewed thoughtfully
whilst contemplating the upstairs window.
He seemed surprised
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.
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.
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 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!
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.
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.
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.
in locked allotments
bracing brass monkey feet
with clenched teeth
through frozen clods
customarily turning over old leaves
and gripping glass
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
staggered bleeding to the gate.
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.