C permeates the place, then B
flits in. A pair, possibly.
‘Do you think I’m fat?’
‘Whaaa? You...’
twitters B.
‘No, me, I’m not fat, just stretched. S-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d to far.’ C was not
convinced.
‘Faaa? What, you? You’re stretched.’
‘No I’m not.’ C, fluidly. ‘Not at all stretched. I’m thin.
People see right through me.’
‘See you. See you. See you there, and that bit.’ Who could
argue with B?
‘I shall get angry. Then you will see my thundering
rage.’ Wobbling and distracted, C’s
appearance was unacceptable, to them. A one-off, with a strange perspective.
‘Rage, rage, raaa... A thunder is loud and red.’ No
doubt artistic B was preparing something – visual. Something difficult to
interpret. She had wandered off, scuffing the ground.
‘Not red. I’m not red.
I’m grey and pewter, ink and midnight.
Do you like me red? C grew abstract, obviously.
‘Red? You’re not red. You’re so cold; so there; so,
everywhere.’ For a gentle spirit, B was getting animated. It would wear off
soon.
‘Everywhere? I can’t be everywhere. I’m there; not here. Is
everyone there? I wish someone was here.’
C was irate, almost beside themself.
‘Here! No-one’s here, that’s anyone. Are you anyone? Cos if
you are, you should be there.’ B was colouring the waters again. Artistic
temperament.
‘There? I’m not there. I’m blue really. Why can’t anyone see
my true colours?’ At last, C recognised their limitations. Nailed it. But would
it last? Honestly?
‘I wish my friends were here, then we could go up town. Have a coffee.’ Creative café, appealing to
bird, time for chatter.
‘Coffee. Coffee. COUGH. What sound does coffee make, cos
you’re not making it?’ C had to be practical. Pedantic, more like.
‘I would, you know, make it...if only...’ her face steamed.
‘If only what? You haven’t made coffee, so I bet you’re not
going to.’
‘I am, you know, I’m really going to make it.’ With that, B
vanished in a flap. Gone for hours. No-one was sure where.
‘Make it, I just can’t make it. No-one is here to make it.
Will you?’ C picked up where they’d left off. Stubborn and pleased at B’s
return.
‘Will I what?’ C was determined to stir B.
‘Make coffee?’
‘Make coffee, why should I?’ Bird was not interested in
coffee, no matter where she’d been for hours.
‘Why should I make it? Who would notice anyway?’ C was
getting darker.
‘Notice? You notice. You don’t notice me.’
‘Me, I notice. Notice what?’ C was impatient to move back to
themself.
‘Kaaa-ah! You notice nothing. The notice, notice that.’ B
must be working on a portfolio.
‘I notice, really I do. I’m so blue, I must, I MUST
concentrate.’ This was interesting, C’s complexion had changed.
‘Concentrate. Them’s purple. No, them’s yellow. Yellow. Are
you frightened?’ B jumped backwards. It was surprising.
‘Frightened of yellow? Oh, no, I’m falling now. Silently and
cold.’
‘C-c-cold, so cold, so can you see my prints now?’ B
shivered.
‘Here! There’s something. Something cold. Too late.’
C froze.‘B-B-B, you noticed me? You did, you noticed me
here. I could die happy now, one day...’
B lay down and died.
‘OH! There’s something on this notice. Perhaps I’ll go
there, sometime, somewhere, anywhere. So fat and thin, and broad and long, both
grey and blue... and only red at sunset. Bye, little bird, you’re gone, you’ve
flown from here to nowhere. Floating,
floating, cool and slow; ephemeral as air.’
They always move on, eventually.
A woke up, giggling. ‘Fancy
asking a bird to make coffee!’ Sleep vaporised.
TO AUTUMN’S PLEASANT SOUNDS OF NOTHING OLD (Prose Poem)
[Inspired by Autumn poems of: John Keats; John Clare; Emily Brontë; Robert Frost; William Butler Yeats; William Shakespeare]
A
hustling of weaves round the wheat fields and bolder hedgerows grumbling
brambles. Rats’ eyes in barns and flurries round haystacks, barrows of manure
harvest cows at milking-time. Bustling thrusts of twigs and raging branches,
stiles gust spinning debris. The oak-storm pops acorns, then whooshing birds
fling berries. Throngs of hay-dry grasses perish, too late for rest or trying
to hide in bare-swept rushes. Fizzing gawking ghost-herds lean for shelter
where they’re stood. Horses in paddocks, crows gushing down. Robins and
sparrows grapple whatever’s arrived. Ground-mud features of spit and trample,
as spirals swing for nuts on bird feeders. Gunshots of acorns beg for burial
and forgetfulness of teeth and claws. Wipe away summer’s thrill, for dirt is the
new clean. Singing among rubble and street building sites. Don’t cheat, just
write, and frame the mourning season. Glister in cobwebs on a moody dawn.
Nurture is fickle and wild with shades of grime, choose colour that fades
gently. Belief in earthly paradise holds power to subsidise the keening of pale
wind. When Paradise was rank with bloated fruit, worn flesh sagged downwards.
Something must hold with support. What line is here that you can’t see?
Bellow, grieve and float, or dangle on woodland branches. Quake with chill,
rare intoned notes grate like hooded crows, hoping for lunch. You make me a
gorgon howling moonlight, as if rays of bone structure could hit you. Rest and
by and by your lack of foresight will don a Frankenstein as your alter-ego.
Wail too eerily, or guess. I maybe ashes. Death is the new grey, as ruthless
lies expire your consummate appearance. You eat and then you’re eaten. The
stronger you’re deceived to give away nothing, the longer pain of leaving is
gone too soon. You’re ancient now, grey’s not the new black, you sleep for
England. You have fuel? Don’t need books to tinder phantoms lofty like wild
eyes. Long gone, shaded youthfulness till noon. You were eye candy once,
had the grace to say, ‘I had my moments’. Lovers devoured your good
looks, while others chose that roving rowdy distant itch. Some even loved that
haggard pain-drawn face. Reach out arthritic fingers to your fire, sadly
only on for an hour. Love ran away to beach parties and poolside cocktails.
Stars begged for their glitz. Winter falls.
Breathing Through the Pain
Rolling onto all fours: gas and air, gas and air.
Pushing, groaning, wave on wave
of mind and body merged in delivery.
I was such a proud Mum;
my Mount Olympus moment:
one to tell the mother and baby group.
My second, without Forceps/Ventouse Suction/nor C-Section.
Unsurprisingly, no future invites to birth parties of peers.
No Demob, debrief, Health Visitor, nor guide to
post-lactation, until six weeks later (doctor’s health
check).
‘You deserve care
too.’
Yes.
Right.
The baby? Eight months’ gestation, half-sized,
misplaced umbilical.
My best earth-mother delivery…
His name? Andrew.
SHUSH! Naughty Moon
[Also available as a video poem]
leaves hanging on late
full Harvest moon beaming shadows of the bogeyman
songs of harvesting grapes, travelling into space
Blue moons fanciful,
volcanic eruptions
chords in atmospheric hell-hole
birdsong no twigs cracking leaves shushing oh yes
prayed for Black moons darkness of greater night
shadows walking invisible until 4am
bible phases of the moon, researched online
186 place names, records of tides of moon phases.
horizon, noise droned on buggers
heroes on bridge endless
traffic
october not the cruellest month for Hunters
of game or dying grass every type of tree dying
the Blood moon leached
white hiding nothing
gone now first full
moon in november
nocturnal wading woodcocks lumbering through thorns
and mud easy picking
out november busy
call it Beaver/Frost/ Mourning cleanse negativity before
thanksgiving oh,
he was thankful never enough
frost would… before… no matter we live the naughty
present (before rebirth)
churches bless our dead
will easter rise?
what fun dancing cosmonauts landing
on planet earth
expecting laurel crowns
castigated as crows
blue and yellow spacesuits orbiting
Mourning
earth
I heard what! where!
no
Whizz crack stray Putin’s law
they won’t find me
until lads and lasses return medals
then a seasonal service
at church in town
oh yes Frost moon beams
me Mourning
with no dam no poppies please i’m brave
just sunflowers
Wendy Webb
loves nature, wildlife, symmetry and form and the creative spark. Published in
Reach, Sarasvati, Quantum Leap, Crystal, Dreich, Seventh Quarry, The Journal, The
Frogmore Papers, Drawn to the Light; online in Littoral, Lothlorien, Autumn
Voices, Wildfire Words, Atlantean, Poetry Kit; broadcast Poetry Place.
Forthcoming: Amateur Gardening (14/10/23), Leicester Literary Journal. Book:
Love’s Floreloquence; Landscapes (with David Norris-Kay) from Amazon; free
downloads of other poetry from Obooko.
Love's
Floreloquence: Amazon.co.uk: Webb, Wendy Ann, Meek, CT, Meek: 9798850867003:
Books
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