poem

Before The Apple Bobbing

The effigy burns 		   slowly 
until he’s blessed with 		       lighter fluid 
and turps.         Inferno, 	like hell, 
swallows the straw-man 			     whole. 

Innocent faces stare wide-eyed - 
claret cheeks gorging 		      liquorice Catherine-wheels 
while their spin-fizz namesakes 
frizzle		   out 	     defiant 		    sparks 
in the face of 	   Roman candles. 

Lies are told about the name's origin  
by the man in charge.   
‘Oh, Catherine Wheels were named for a king’s wife.’  
Nobody questions Akela.  
Instead, Baloo seethes redder  
                than the flame-licked luridness 
                                                         emblazoning the yard.

                                                         Explosions ensue.




Featured image: Photo by Alexis Hunter on Unsplash

The Armchair

Cenotaph of my loathe-quarry
lurks in the corner
ominous obelisk of misery-grey fabric 
stained by stagnant-self
                    arms grubbier than a plagiarist in an inkwell.

It haunts my body
memory-foam cushions twisted
around my depression
                      like an alligator in death-roll.

                                  If perching, it’s only for seconds
dread at comfort swallowing me whole
or falling over the feet clumsily
                                 delivering self-recrimination
that plunges me into that dark brutal chasm
                                                                                   - again.

The armchair is a sound-hollow
negative echoes only
so I stay silent near its plinth
  	              ⁃ yet sometimes the pride in victory
my eyes hold
is loud enough to drown
                                              past despair.

An Affair of Pipistrelles

Shrouded in the half-light 
of a crow-dusk sky and ruby streetlamp blur 
I observe hidden lovers 
tango in mid-air 
wings outstretched ready to hold the earth  
                                   in their lust-love 

time is stolen by the passion of the near-night  
                          and silent melody of the harp-moon 

until the crackle of burnt leaf-beacons
warns of a stoat’s prying eyes
               
         endangered by discovery
         the paramours bow into the shadows 
leaving only the gentlest echo of their romance 
                                                           
                                                                           to the dark.

Autumn From The Kitchen Window

Maple leaves are falling        like          flames
touch-paper thin and crisp dry
perfect kindling for burning 
              the last vestige of summer.

Brambles bruised as a boxer's eye
are being wrangled by magpies and jays 
blue tail-feathers glisten 
with every blood-spattered                     bite.

 Furnace-chested robins stare menacingly 
        their smouldering coal claws 
seem melted to the gatepost 
soul-bound guardians 
                      - a comforting presence. 

The arrival of a delivery van 
steals my view
       -      ambushes my catatonia.

Community Orchard Picking Party

pears are dangling
silvery earthen-green earrings
inviting to be removed from leafed ears
some have rotted in the intensity of the sun
                                                                     sheen dulled to clay rust 

damson plums nestle into branches
like amethyst hiding in rock
only smoothed
precious stone                          fruit hiding
                                                                    emerald green flesh

braeburns have fallen
comfortable in the flame-kissed leaf beds
and honey golden late summer grasses
                                                                   orbs of sweet promise

the kids are dressed as pirates
wandering with small baskets
ripe with wonder
they gather their               treasures
before a couple of cavaliers
                                                                   spoil their bounty.

Carnivale

rum-wide spacehopper eyes 
staring up at midnight Malagan sky 
discoball stars  glistening 
like a dancers skin 
my bloodstream inferno 
ready to set my beachgrass bed ablaze 
voiceless flame amidst the pulse of revelry 
the forest of ravers surrounding 
                                   will welcome the fire 

I raise myself 
but remember my legs are lost 
to strong liquor and            fatigue 
stumbling into a dance 
floating on the breeze of          second wind 
rotor blade arms almost                take me away 
and what goes up 
must come down 
I’m laughing at myself 
backing track of Faithless 
and howls and cheers 

when I wake 
I want this feeling to be            my cure 
                                                        my comfort 
                                                                  my soul.

Footy Down The Rec

To be twelve again 
drunk on the scent 
       of summer-sweated privet 
eventful walks to the pitches sometimes  
a dog jumping from a garden-strewn manky sofa  
                   or fly-tipped washing machine  
and husbands fighting with wives 
binliner of clothes next to them on the pavement  
                           comedy in tragedy when you’re that young 
we always took a few balls 
best to - if some of the older lads were around 
on lighter-fluid highs - lacking sense 
but the nights of Wembley 
three hours of pelting leather against bare legs  
ball bobbling       along the clumped surface 
bodies skimming the field like           lawnmowers 
     making outrageous crunching tackles 
 ankles twisting like Maradona past Reid
rabid rapture at curling a Mitre Delta into the top corner 
      and green-kneed, mud-stained wanders home
a magic that can never be imitated 
           unlike the knockoff boots and shin pads 
give me that innocence back 
               - that simplicity of fun 
                          with friends.















Grains of Memory

Your table is a real table
sliced oak and oil-dressed
uneven surface                                          like the road leaving the village
grains swollen from drowning emotions
                  - and spilled cups of tea

so many hands have smoothed it
over so many years
some anxious
some happy
           - all loved

a few splinters are bulging from the corners
each a memory
some good
          some bad
some probably just about the times the ashtray was missed
and maybe one where the beer bottle exploded
resting like a stained glass window
         - the table ready to hear pre-night-out confessions 

if it could talk 
how many stories could it tell 
 - too many to worry about 


next time we’re around it
we should give thanks
drift palms gently over the lines
a loose embrace
that clings tightly to the seams
              - like the roots of our friendship.

Ryūjin

devour the sand 
plunder every grain 
horde them in your golden keep 
conquer this land fleetingly
    – rise triumphant 
spread your scales of quicksilver 
under the feathered winter sun 
retreating only 
–  at the moon’s blunt counsel. 

This poem was created in response to the Imagist Poet Hilda Doolittle’s poem Oread as part of TopTweetTuesday on X/Twitter.