Guilty gin
fizzes in
bitter lemon
fizzes in
bitter lemon
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sunlight lancing feathers
golden eagle slicing through air spirit of the plains Bella Kotak soaring and diving almost, out of sight her spirit possesses the sky as she spirals framed at the limit of the world that freeze-frame emotion at the edge of reality The silver birch collapsed in the night:
it must have creaked and groaned with its mighty death rattle toppled by a howling winter gale as I was lost in the land of dreams. In the morn the wind was no longer wild but the silver birch I climbed as a child lay slumped on the rain-soaked grass. It narrowly avoided the greenhouse and will have to stay, I cannot lift it away. The ghost of a young boy sheds a tear but the weather does not care. Yes, the old silver birch fell in the night, a giant carcass...a most forlorn sight. They first came to stay
uninvited but quite ok Yesterday they made me cry forced me to lie Tonight they are shouting squeezing, in my brain They even have a plan they've got knives too The voices, in my head... Near a quiet house
teenagers gather Blondie breaks the glass their in... 'Get the party started' booms out a chair gets smashed porridge on kitchen floor Blondie sprays her tag on walls "BlondiE (heart)" Jumping on beds muddy boots and weed foiled roaches Short break weekend away Mr & Mrs Bayer (and baby) won't be pleased! I stroll past the Animal Wall
and through the West Gate of Bute Park relieved to escape half-term crowds. The Gorsedd Stones are in shade but although it's only late February there are petals of pink and white on the alluring cherry blossom trees, daffodils dance a waltz in the soft breeze. It's the warmest February day in history with the blue Taff reflecting the sky, joggers, dog-walkers are out in force and families enjoying picnics but later the gothic castle will stare through the trees at a magical carpet of frost to confuse nature in the ghostly night and melt to shine as if stars in the light. Faltering steps on ice
clumsy, timid, testing but confidence growing cutting through permafrost steel blades tight laced making curlicues patterns cut glass Mouse fur hat bobs as she glides spinning in arabesque completing a Swan Lake sequence no witnesses a private pond in a Scottish winter faster and faster timing the snow flakes Woollen leggings against the chill velvet collared coat red pearl-back mittens pleated tartan skirt pirouettes on the turn circling into herself decreasing, yet increasing a gyroscopic toy in a frozen wood When my mood is at low-tide
my thoughts turn to the young woman in a wheelchair who knew that everyday might well be her last. Yet her spirit soared like a white eagle in a northern sky, her body has gone but she did not die and on this fine day at the edge of spring I feel her spirit in the daffodils and in the roses of the church path. She is my inspiration, her soul shines like the morning dew reminding us how transient we are, each one shining...like a miniature star. The mist drifts
in wraiths of moisture caressing cold stone pausing as if gossip was its mission The spire disappearing into the ethereal ether delivers liquid messages to the almighty Drifting across the road wetting leaf and shrub phantoms appear dissolving once more on missions unknown Walking in this other world is a non-existence is this what death feels like seeking relative comfort in the world of life Shadows of cars pass in a grey wash muffled engines adding to the mix exhaust fumes and mist turning the streets into dream-like memories... It is only mid-February
but already the soil awakes: fully formed daffodils wave, sun burning gold into the woods. The almond tree blossom has bloomed, white petals dancing to the ground below when winter grass should don a coat of snow yet it is the robin I admire the most, its head moving swiftly to and fro displaying a rotund rusty breast. People relax outside a country pub with the grim storms quite forgotten. I watch the robin as it flickers away in a balmy breeze...that belongs to May. I'm thinking I'm sinking
while thinking of you I'm sinking and thinking admiring the view I'm sinking and thinking of less bodily mieu I'm thinking of sinking while sinking from view If I was less sinking I'd think more of you... They found it
at the bottom of the fire-escape Still smoking While in the room with the wind blown drapes The Prince is dead Detectives twitch their noses cleaning whiskers the coachman hides feathers in his pocket An airport taxi disgorges its hurried departure two brass shell cases on the seat... We were in silent mode and like a cancer it spread,
An abyss appeared and consumed us with our silence, Once the young, carefree us disappeared, A time when words were not needed. Then, words were all we had left and we could not find them, We were lost and there was no way back, Now, I am old and lonely and sad with, just memories, I have words now, but you cannot hear them. I wonder how your life fared, happiness? contentment? Photo's old and battered, smiles, laughter, just memories, Always in my head, always in my heart. Silence. Can you see the world
in a raindrop Magnified focused splitting light through a prism A lasered view no parallax error a cosmic distance ladder making planets microscopic small as a galaxy A universe in a drop of water Asimov said.. Russian dolls standing in a row,
a gift from a loved one many years ago. At the moment the sun paints them gold from the tiny child to the father. I remember, I remember, twisting each one, placing them on the ledge in the bedroom, a once magical place, now like a tomb. I prefer to forget the bitter arguments recalling with fondness Saturday mornings, sun caresssing her yellow locks. Oh, how fortunate we do not know what callous fate has in store. Russian dolls standing in a row, a gift from a loved one...many years ago. They no longer tell me stories
they don't invite me to the fire they left me to borrow soil no-one is to hold me again no-one will scrape my bread no-one can return me whole a torch-lit pattern scraped and spooned offering to the tribe of man a stone memory.. I’d known something was wrong
even before opening the door. There was a formality to his stance hat politely in hand buttons glistening in the rain. Shivered goosebumps on my skin. The uniform told its story before his words. In the chill, my heart lagged a beat behind the snore of night. The world slumbered, unawares. The promised
immortality brought on unanticipated insanity from plethora of memories: total recall information overload negated everything past present and future experience upon experience blended into this chaotic kaleidoscope of dreams morphed into nightmares – thus I switch myself OFF. I carefully stroll through the gates
and under the arch of the old Norman church, tombs and fir trees adorned with white on this bitter early February morning. A magpie creates a transient flurry as the sun paints diamonds into the snow perhaps watched by those reposing below. There's not a living soul visible as I study the inscriptions: some have been weathered away and a cross has fallen like a tree, no flowers here, it lies quite forgot. I think of all those who've walked through such snow, the world such a different place long ago. The old broom head
like an elongated hedgehog stoppers the rickety driftwood gate. The shingle path winds its way through the garden tumbling to the river’s edge. The tree house bereft of children’s play majestically awaits the next generation. Elderflower cordial sweetens suspended time. I feel ashamed, pathetic,
fretting about my petty woes on Holocaust Memorial Day. Almost 80 years ago the devil ruled in Europe: trains which had been used to transport cattle groaned and screeched with an awful death rattle. There was no food and just a bowl as a toilet for the desperate people crammed so tightly they could only stand. An elegant finger pointed the way to either the chamber of horror where poison gas robbed the victims of breath or work at the camp...a living death. We were damaged,
like parcels all worn away at the edges. with brown tape, all curled up. We smoked roll ups. Sipped pints of cider in pubs with no name and unpacked each other. We flew to Amsterdam, saw ‘Sunflowers’ in Van Gogh’s museum We Ate green Thai, all dressed up. We bought our own place. Derek Jarman’s garden moved us to plant seeds, make roots. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though. Just submit them using the submissions Storybox. Archives
March 2019
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