Five Poems by Wendy Webb

 

Turning the Tide



Sand-in-toes Canute

screamed less, than

seagull-special son,



throwing buckets,

spades, car keys

and Edwardian



pennies out to sea,

telling the tide

to, Go Back!



Out to see

whatever we could

sea: salty-wet



beyond despair

or a pair of wellies.

Glister that seat,



Neptune-brash as

yesterday. When

we were parents,



golden-haired Icarus

waxed memory-bright

his blue-eyed throne.

Sticks & Stones, Sorry – Won’t



Sun shining

beach huts blossoming

the sky hazy blue

the gently rippling tide awash with diamonds,

sat at the Beachwalk Café in blistering shine,

500ml bottle of Old Mout Cider

Berries & Cherries

fresh as New Zealand.

No standing nor staring allowed

in the view to die for, in sight of Harwich.

Reading, drinking, dipping in the scene

of paddling summers; children at school.

So why maudlin with cherry-red cheeks?

The town awash with Charity Shops,

hubby pausing, slow-sipping at newsprint.

He’s gone to park the car

I’m recovering

overflowing racks of dresses/

shirts/trousers/

belts/bags

and women gossiping.

About me? An acquaintance?

Who cares?

Not them, gossiping out

as I walked through the door

and the deaf hearing every word

like shafting a bird with arrows.

The seas could empty of diamonds,

so I wandered the seafront

sat, gorgeous in the view

of others; enjoying a holiday

Mediterranean-style.

 

Right Joke, Wrong Town

The rules of humour are so strange, it seems

that nothing is left sacred for a joke.

Barbed worlds wring sensitivities of dreams,

spark-strikes the rumble-strip of comic bloke.

 

That nothing is left sacred, for a joke

garbed holy lady giggles, filled with glee,

spark-strikes the rumble-strip of comic bloke;

whip feather duster/frozen bird; charge fee.

 

Garbed holy lady giggles, filled with glee

will, (with a foreign accent) keep straight face,

whip feather duster/frozen bird, charge fee.

Public screams of laughter enfold that place.

 

Still, with a foreign accent keep straight face,

crazed gestures/burps/surprises with a fall.

Public screams of laughter enfold that place,

don’t get it wrong, clown won’t be walking tall…

 

Crazed gestures, burps, surprises with a fall:

nightmares onstage, off… will ruin fun.

Don’t get it wrong! Clown won’t be walking tall,

slapped shame-faced pavement stagger; pressed, you’re done.

 

Nightmares onstage, off… will ruin fun,

barbed worlds wring sensitivities of dreams.

Slapped shame-faced pavement stagger; Press, you’re done.

The rules of humour are so strange, it seems.

 

Love on the Marshy Horizon

 

My love is like a trip to Blakeney,

stuffing in experience as we may:

nice view, nice food, nice drink, nice sex

if the workmen stop hammering for five;

if the prostate reaches those parts…

Hey, let’s read instead.

 

So love is like (after 31 years),

pills and thrills and will he/won’t he,

indulgences and little treats.

Practicalities of body parts

which work on a good day, maybe;

which complain loudly, fouling play;

which refuse to sock ball, at will.

Hey, perhaps we’ll sleep instead.

 

My love enjoys the trip to Blakeney,

it’s wild and loud and full of birds.

There’s walks to die from/trinket stores.

What about take-away coffee at Cley?

What about rescued on time by a Bus Pass?

What about sumptuous luxury and warmth?

Hey, let’s return to Blakeney.

 

Telestich Places Rocks on View (Acrostic)

 

Perhaps you’ve holidayed beside the sea, a cliff

underneath broad East Anglian skies where

zany tourist attractions promenade comfortably all

zoned out and restful as a view. You sit and sup, while I

lean comfortably into my pain, sup deeply. Wax

eloquently to nobody in particular and sigh. Perhaps

stretch out bare arms and legs, remember, too much.  Yet

 

in delightful park, or along the pier, contemplate horizons so

neat and solitaire bright. Watch Evergreen weighed low

 

possibly grounding on the Suez. Care not a seagull’s glide

outweighed by sumptuous restaurants, retail therapy, or

elegant hotels with chandelier-bright dining for two

totally immersed in little nothings, charity shops en bloc

reviving sense of humours past, or making a comeback

yesterday’s ice cream/or wine pleasures reviving tomorrows

Wendy Webb - Born in the Midlands, home and family life in Norfolk. She edited Star Tips poetry magazine 2001-2021. Published in Indigo Dreams, Quantum Leap, Crystal, Envoi, Seventh Quarry, The Journal, The Frogmore Papers) and online (Littoral Magazine, Autumn Voices, Wildfire Words, Lothlorien, Meek Colin, Atlantean), she was placed First in Writing Magazine’s pantoum poetry competition. She devised new poetry forms (Davidian, Magi, Palindromedary); wrote her father’s biography, ‘Bevin Boy’, and her own autobiography, ‘Whose Name Was Wit in Waterr’ (title inspired by Keats’ grave in Rome). She has attempted many traditional forms and free verse. Favourite poets: Dylan Thomas, Gerard Manley Hopkins, John Burnside, John Betjeman, the Romantic Poets (especially Wordsworth), George Herbert, William Blake, Emily Dickinson, Mary Webb, Norman Bissett, William Shakespeare, the Bible, and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.

Current poetry collection: LOVE’S FLORELOQUENCE, Wendy Ann Webb,

Amazon.co.uk.

Love's Floreloquence: Amazon.co.uk: Webb, Wendy Ann, Meek, CT, Meek, CT, Webb, Wendy Ann: 9798372967595: Books