PECKING CHICKEN FEED 1920s to 2020s
My Dad never mentioned growing
sunflowers ,just turnips – frozen in the ground, digging hell–
and chickens – his Dad wringing
their necks, his Mum plucking –
so I don’t know if he would
understand.
He never had to leave home in a
hurry,
though he came home from school to
a different house, next village,
his stash of pennies in the
previous bedroom
(in a gap between the
pipes/upstairs)… Perhaps it’s still there,
his boyhood treasure chest? What
did Grandad know?
My Mum never mentioned sharing a
Fray Bentos pie,
portioned out fairly between all
hungry mouths.
The privy was at the end of the
yard, in the 2 up 2 down
where a man couldn’t pee without
seeing his neighbours gossiping.
The old laundry is online yet, down
the Medders (knocked down in the 70s).
I bet Mum went there; as rarely as
possible, though it must have been an improvement
on Victorian times.
My Sister knew all about
baby-nappies; dropping them down the side
of the sofa; a little reminder of
her visit (aged 16); with the baby.
My Brother was too-familiar with
old-fashioned wheelbarrows,
a lethal pile of ladders across his
path at eye-height.
My Nephew knew all about methadone:
double supplies over the Bank
Holiday without support.
Some lessons we live to regret; the
young, impulsive have no time
for remorse. Their lives untaught.
My family learnt, over the years,
to tell stories…
I am still hearing about
sunflowers; and leaving home in a hurry;
while what’s a luxury/what’s
essential blanches.
I think – at the top of the list –
is life.
Health.
Blue
skies, yellow daffodils
and, no disputin’ with
everything/everyone else.
Hats
contain minds,
take
black and white cine film back
before
end of reel.
Sideboards
retain memories,
useless
as records/cassettes/VHS
at house
clearances.
Melodies
refrain hearts’
tunes
from a vanquished era
at the
end of the dance.
Your
cap, out walking yet,
on grey
hair over angled frames,
slow
feet. Active age breathes on.
That
sideboard’s packed with 33’s, 45’x,
carefully
removed from sleeves:
Johnny
Cash.
They’re
selling record players again,
sound
quality without pain:
revolutions
and relationships. Dead.
No
cash/no ration book in sideboard,
just
ciggies, lighters, paper towels.
Hats/scarves/jackets:
nicotine’s scent.
Mind
that motorbike rumbling down the road:
whiffs
of rare smoke trails,
musty
caps. Youthful beards and 33’s.
FATHER’S DAY 2022-1965
I see you every time of day,
though you were old and I was
young.
And now?
Father, my father,
you are dying backwards
to that ‘oss ‘n cart,
that pint, that beard,
that cap that never was removed
and, oh, so many wear it now
on the street, then out of sight.
It’s Father’s Day – I sent you,
one year, a card that held mystery:
it said, Nephew…
Do you think, perhaps, that year
you became a Grandad?
Left your motorbike’s piston
on the mantelpiece – as a keepsake;
that year, that glorious year
we were towed onto the Council site
opposite a funfair.
Two whole weeks of heaven -
children unsupervised
on
Yarmouth seafront.
Those days when it was Great.
Our money ran out Day One;
you got us home to the Midlands
Day
14.
Such happy news, to hear
I
was an Aunty,
so long ago, Dad, when you
were young (but not to me).
In 1965, before you wore a cap.
Before; I needed explanations.
First
published in Coasting Norfolk, Poetry Monthly Press, 2006-09, FBSR
Opening the fridge of outdoors,
light simply beams April,
clean-born once more,
before firmly closing door; chill
stings air and cheeks
and maybe spring is finally here,
joining daffodils in joyous dance.
We rustle sandwiches and guzzle
juice;
picnic packed away.
Shrill whistling trails the track.
Whoosh of carriages beneath,
transfigured by dense soot and
steam,
to platforms packed in bygone
years:
the Seaside Special
clattering to a coastal town
of faded Regency.
Tracking back through Sheringham
Park,
a Lookout to the fairest English
scene
of rolling land and sea and shored
up dreams.
Then in the house’s private garden,
gazing down on finest pegged out
washing,
round and round, the brightest,
pinkest
bloomers ever seen:
a rhododendron dreaming in full
bloom.
The Temple gives an aspect’s sedate
view,
framed picture-postcard seat to
grade a house,
enlisting security’s comfort
- yesteryear.
But, later, air so thick with
silence;
haze barely blocking sun.
Gleam, bouncing fat with promise,
summer’s bluest skies.
Sun shines, at last, to shadows
born anew.
Poem
inspired by Martin Luther King’s famous speech.
First
published in Flying to Never Land, Poetry Monthly Press, 2005-11, FBSR
I have a dream
that one day no poet will be judged
by the colour of their prose
no man will be told where or what
to submit
no woman will need to justify
success in a women’s only magazine
I have a dream
I have a dream that one day all
poets will speak with one voice
none will be asked what form they
choose
what bus they ride
who designed the view
I have a dream
I have a dream that one day any
poet will be free
free to write about the lion lying
down with the lamb
about weapons of mass destruction
beaten into ploughshares
no-one doubting their originality
of thought
asked if they support a modern
school
I have a dream
I have a dream that every man will
hold his brother by the hand
not asking whether his fellow poet
is male or female
famous or unknown
published to a higher or lower
degree
I have a dream
I have a dream that one day poets
will speak for everyman
and everyman will be a poet of
highest worth
one day a poet will receive coins
for his pavement words
a podium for muse pressed tersely
between slim pages
a gathering of reporters for his
visions of hope
I have a dream
I have a dream that the painter and
poet and street busker
will gather to perform in the Royal
Festival Hall
the Thames flowing faster than
crowds over Westminster Bridge
queueing for poems for art for
music
like bread on the waters of their
lives
and a little child will lead them all
I have a dream
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