Tuesday, 17 January 2017

short forms 17th January 2017

she's still
losing the plot
the novel still falters
despite an overall vision.
Demons.


© Rachel Green 2017

pouring rain
a drift of windblown leaves
unswept


© Rachel Green 2017

letter from bank
overdraft exceeded
depression sets in
I have no art to sell
my talent, evaporated


© Rachel Green 2017

jiu-jitsu defence
techniques against guns
(knives, batons)

I stay a little longer
to help with the next student
overconfident white belt

old lady blue belt, yo


© Rachel Green 2017

bad dreams. anxiety. Plans for frugality.

© Rachel Green 2017

Monday, 16 January 2017

poetry 2017 / 013

Musical Chairs

This one time
I had a couple of friends in Walsall.
Richard, I'd known for years
--shared a flat with him, once--
and his wife, Debbie, who used to be
the girlfriend of a mutual friend
but moved around the table.
He worked early mornings, his nights
ending around ten and she and I used to go
around the local pubs drinking, playing pool.
She started seeing this Australian guy
and, with loyalties to both, held me to secrecy.
Foolish, in the end, for when she left
Richard thought I'd shagged her queer
and we never spoke again.

short forms 16th January 2017

silence
in the old house
her new trepidation
as she imagines her dad, dead.
Too late.


© Rachel Green 2017

green bicycle
on a zebra crossing
squealing brakes


© Rachel Green 2017

morning buzz
council workers
pollarding trees
I squeeze into a parking spot
after a station trip


© Rachel Green 2017

anxiety dream
an old flatmate
makes contact

my internet usage
appears on his mobile bill
angry man

we didn't have internet in the eighties


© Rachel Green 2017

she constructs tiny people. Her friends.

© Rachel Green 2017

Sunday, 15 January 2017

poetry 2017 - 012

On the Offering of News

Silenced,
hands clasped
waiting for direction
or judgement.
A downward gaze out of respect
and a little fear.
Life was less fraught than this, once,
and more stressful at others.
The skin of her hand itches
the base of her thumb
where the scar reminds her of Twitchy,
her sister's rabbit fifty years ago,
she wants to scratch it.
Can't.
Curls her toes instead.
Her mind wanders until she recognises a lull in speech.
Aural memory fills in the blank
and she bobs a curtsey.

The relief floods her bladder
She wants a wee
but duty is not done.

poetry 2017 / 011

Prelude to Regret

Her father's out – won't be back
until the early hours. The TV flickers
in the darkness of the living room.
Cold tile floor, rush mats. Wallpaper
chosen by her mother years ago
cubist eccentricity, a seventies style
marked down to ten pence a roll.
Cotteridge Ironmongers, where the scent
of kerosene and Jeyes Fluid dominate
over beeswax and three-in-one oil.
Airedale terriers hog the sofa
Penny snoring, Jake, grinning,
nuzzles her hand hoping
for fuss or a treat. She watches a film,
black and white horror on channel four
and teaches herself to smoke
with an old pack of camels.
Her father won't notice one more cigarette
among the overflowing ashtrays.

short forms 15th Januray 2017

first love
turns out badly
criminal mastermind
dealing in drugs for six counties.
Stevie.


© Rachel Green 2017

first light
a crow calls from the sycamore
warm sheets


© Rachel Green 2017

old film
childhoosd sci-fi
strong memories
even now it makes me tearful
well crafted


© Rachel Green 2017

early rise
my alarm goes off
won't dismiss

DK now awake
takes it from me
turns it off

doghouse blues


© Rachel Green 2017

freezing house She begs a blanket.

© Rachel Green 2017

Saturday, 14 January 2017

short forms 14th January 2017

short play
increased fitness
climbing a monument
her memories of childhood
fading


© Rachel Green 2017

cold earth
even the worms are hiding
dark ice


© Rachel Green 2017

Samwise Trumperton
engages with our visitor
hoping for carrot
Jealous to a pinch
Trickster eats carrot, too


© Rachel Green 2017

ju-jutsu class
only four of us
a splendid hour

some rolling exercises
extended sparring
a lesson in patience

I'm caught in a beautiful Ezekiel


© Rachel Green 2017

fresh-brewed coffee. Winter-chapped lips

© Rachel Green 2017