PERCEIVING DUST AND WARHEADS
I wouldn’t call it fifty shades…
although it’s tangible as the Tour de Eiffel,
nor monochrome as light filters through densely,
one book-sized jigsaw piece illuminates
white dots in meaningless 3D’s
unformed words or numbers.
Sun flushes a roundabout of tyred surfaces,
pops open to gloves, hand-gel and tissues
white the greater spread of boredom dusts to plain.
Beyond this field of war dead’s symmetry
a sky of pewter downpour bleeds to blue.
The scent of warmed-up sofas, paper, plastic
and comforting whoosh and hum of life
FLASHED PAST.
Invisible and primed like bombs and warheads,
planned destination beyond a dashboard’s range.
THUNDEROUS DOWNPOUR BEYOND STOCK GHYLL
Happy days among cockroaches’ death throes
watching them over breakfast of white powder.
Long-gone, the red coat she wore
as we waved bye to Mum at the local bus stop.
Before that cat ran across the ceiling’s blue/green walls,
I could have lived with turquoise forever, like home.
Moth catcher of my light fluttered away
where new house rewarded her real children:
Dad’s new girlfriend, 6 children not 4.
Blanched of family meals and laughter
when he renamed me ‘one of his older children’
among a talcum powder chaos of stepbrothers/sisters.
Sighs and trickle-tears into a fold-out bed
left a thin mattress for fledgling college courses.
Headache flashback of bedsit-land/streets of gold
no girls nor boys next door like the sitcoms.
Wailing Wall desecration in Holy of Holies footsteps
of shifty tourist sub routes among camels and donkeys.
Dusty sandalled feet kissed by stones and perfume
refreshed by Jaffa orange juice beneath a palm.
My soul howled at a moon of mixer drinks/wallet/student ID
endless film repeats unwrapped a parcel.
That day Bishop Budde prayed quietly in compassion
for the poor oppressed non-woke multi-racial Taco refugees…
Stock Ghyll stormed down through bare rock.
PEDALLING BROKEN ROUTINES IN WINTER
The day’s not panned out as expected,
does it ever?
The ordinary is everywhere, no matter what’s neglected,
some simply say, On yer bike.
Does it ever,
the sun shining brilliant from pearlescent sky?
Some simply say, On yer bike…
the chain broke as mist throttled a diamond sheen.
The sun shining brilliant from pearlescent sky,
barely pedalling electric trike and Ice Sprint Recliner.
The chain broke as mist throttled a diamond sheen,
going nowhere to fix the morning.
Barely pedalling electric trike and Ice Sprint Recliner,
two kitted bikers pulling the long trail home.
Going nowhere to fix the morning:
he messed with tools, she started gardening.
Two kitted bikers pulling the long trail home,
warming coffee thrilled those frozen parts.
He messed with tools, she started gardening,
the young returned – no bus – nowt else to ride.
Warming coffee thrilled those frozen parts,
recalling morning rise, stop-start and finished.
The young returned, no bus, nowt else to ride,
barely lunchtime and ‘Love Your Garden’.
Recalling morning rise, stop-start and finished,
the ordinary is everywhere, no matter what’s neglected.
Barely lunchtime and ‘Love Your Garden’.
the day’s not panned out as expected.
DISASTROUS OR NOT AS LIKELY DUCK (Tautogram)
Dog-eared duck-faced Donald doesn’t deserve dumb damning
decisions don’t discuss dynamite-dire despair.
Don’t describe dark do-dos Donald’s drop-down dishwasher drowning
dripsy-dropsy duckface doesn’t do delicious dynamic Dan Dare.
Only one old ornamental ‘orse
ozone-absent oo-ooh-’oles
OTT of ‘oarse, or ornithologically-extinct
open-minded oral-outed over-optimistically ‘orrible.
Nowhere Nan not nevermore nor nasty neat nor necking
nothing nibbles nether ‘nobbly nooks nor nesting nannies.
Neverwhere no nandy-pandy nookie nor neckie notoriety
nothing’s never norang-nutang nor nuts ‘n normal ‘Anny’s.
Awful antics acquaint all avuncular actors arriving
auspicious absent air-chair awaiting attendees.
An aural awkward arrivederci a-waving an ageing antimacassar
an ample armpit aiming airwards at artisan artistic apples.
Lolloping likely left-or-light, lo lastingly lil-Aloysius’
laid-back landlubber’s lax-lithe lorry-last lisping.
Lusty lungs luxuriate lest luggage leaves limpid-lasciviously
locates little loquacious lookalikes loblolly-listing.
Don’t dust-tramp deride, dial dust-bust desperation
dormant do-dos decide desperado dalliance derisions.
Decades deliver duck-feathers dildo-crazy:
Discuss don’t date don’t dally don’t duck.
Topsy-turvy tangerine teaser
remarkable revolving rumbling rump.
Ubiquitous Uranus uses used udders
Mamma Mia max-muttering mump.
Pissoir plump.
BLUE CLOWN MEMORIES AND PANTOS
There are no names nor dates nor faces,
simply fascinating Henry Whipple
sounding like ice cream.
Walking through a vast hall of nothing seen,
past endless rooms that failed to grasp imagination.
No details of red hair escaping its elastic band.
Any food/drink/outdoor clothes in the lap of gods,
preserving nothing but innocence.
Next, a full cotton wool beard of Santa, smiling,
dressed in primary painted red.
I loved that Victorian building, packed with
children’s faces, laughter, third-pint pasteurised milk
and bottle tops and silver foil – rustling – for charity.
No words identified a teacher’s name, nor classmates,
simply the comfort of a bum-shaped seat, knobbly as
horse chestnuts in the playground at Infants’ breaktime.
Conkers for every boy in September.
Finally, in bright Junior shades, memories of panto-season,
dressing up as Eleven Lords A-leaping, wonder where
the budgie cage of greens and blues and yellows vanished
to disease and loss. The wonderful Miss Wade, ever-present
through class 6, class 5, class 1; and Mrs Handwriting in class 3.
A wildlife table of caterpillars inside jam-jar, escaping squishily.
Slipping large coppers into shoes: Victoria, Edward, George
and shiny new Elizabeths for Junior bring and buy tables.
So many visual memories since Speech Therapy tricks
after registration, weekly, in town. Blue clown book, laughing.
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