Sunday, 21 January 2018

21st January 2018

double-blind eyes
the bust of a horse's head
a blank of snow


© Rachel Green 2018

morning tower
pots and bowls and pans
teeter, Jenga-like
in and above the sink;
clustered like Delhi plastics
across the beach of counter.
One plate, one cup
I recall was mine but the rest
betray the midnight feastings
of an unseen lodger.
I remember a child, once,
who lived with us.
A child of light and sunshine
picking dandelions in the park
under blue skies and vapour trails.
Now I see closed curtains
and morning dishes
and wonder where did I go
when I left for college?


© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 20 January 2018

20th January 2018

morning walk
through the constant drizzle
a lonely whistle


© Rachel Green 2018

holiday romance
while the wife is unaware
walking dogs
he sees another man
who happens to be staying nearby
She suspects
but cannot prove infidelity
until the condom incident
where they were never used before.
In hindsight
it was a gentlemanly act
merely to protect her
for his newly acquired discharge.
And the cat they never wanted.


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 19 January 2018

19th January 2018

patterns of ice
fracture yesterday's puddles
heavy woodmoke


© Rachel Green 2018

anxiety fears
bring forward the headache
of moving house
living in my grandmother's terrace
with the secret passage
to next-door's attic space
among the dust and cobwebs
and a thousand bluebottle carcasses;
an iridescent plane of wonder
before the rotting wooden frame
of a window overlooking Rowney Green
and the distant spires
on Newcastle's ship canal.


© Rachel Green 2018

Thursday, 18 January 2018

18th January 2018

sunny skies behind
the house, snowing in the front.
Thus, January


© Rachel Green 2018

old friend
waiting for me
in the places where we used to meet.
The witch's hat has long gone
from the Barnt Green playground
but I see your shadow
against the newly planted plaque
commemorating the death of childhood fancy.
What if I decline to come?
Will you linger here
or fades back into my past
like the last time I called?


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 17 January 2018

17th January 2018

scattered snowfall
the cat craps in the kitchen
you're welcome, human


© Rachel Green 2018

my father's room
untouched since his death
still smells of his hand cream
twenty years later.
His old television;
black and white CRT,
his radiogram
and box of albums -- anthems
of the second world war.
Tins of dry tobacco,
another of silver farthings,
and one of thrupenny pieces
he'd saved when they went out of circulation.
My mother's plaster virgin,
the water from Lourdes long evaporated,
the black faux-fur coat
she used to wear to church
and the plastic Christmas tree she decorated
next to his pile of identical blue shirts
and identical grey slacks.
The feather matress is damp from disuse
my mother's rose wallpaper,
peeling.


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 16 January 2018

16th January 2018

sunbeams
through the snow showers
muddy dogs


© Rachel Green 2018

stripping games
from the anonymous browser PC
to make space
and memory usage
Some massive epics
I never played
(too much time investment)
and others,
tiny favourites,
I played over and over
trying to recapture the excitement
of the first time I played.
Now the PC runs Tor netwirk
VPN, private IP.
I watch films and TV
instead of gaming
but I still don't write.


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 15 January 2018

15th January 2018

incessant rain
perhaps another cup of tea before dog walking
just resting my eyes


© Rachel Green 2018

quiet house
despite the washing machine
and the tumble drier
my love working away
leaves me silent and bereft.
Friday seems so far away
when it's only Monday morning
and the infection in my eys
weeps bitter tears
across the fever heat pf my cheek
Barkless dogs.

© Rachel Green 2018