Sunday, 20 May 2018

20th May 2018

nature's tricks
avoiding the mower's blade
dandelion heads


© Rachel Green 2018

when did she lose
her love of colour?
In the details
she delights in the play of paint
one texture over another;
but when she looks at the whole
all she sees is chaos
She needs to find the darkness
of pthalo blue, Prussian
and Payne's grey
for only then
will her light shine through.


© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 19 May 2018

19th May 2018

dandelion fairies
drifting through the open window
birdsong


© Rachel Green 2018

in the window
of an overpriced junk shop
'the antique store'
a cartwheel
for decorative purposes
give me the idea for mounting
a circular painting.
Lack of funds prompts innovation
and the use of plywood
and cross-braces
but yay!
new painting.


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 18 May 2018

18th May 2018

dappled sunlight
early morning dog walk
forget-me-nots


© Rachel Green 2018

young lady
invites me to her graduation
4000 miles away
alas, I can't go.
More to the point,
I fail to make her a gift in time,
so last minute flowers
from a shop local to her
cost me an overdraft.
Should I finish the gift
and send it late?
Or save it for someone else?
or sell it for the price
of the flowers I sent?


© Rachel Green 2018

Thursday, 17 May 2018

17th May 2018

dandelion clocks
ripening in the sunshine
running children

© Rachel Green 2018

learning to paint
thirty years
after art school.
I think my father was right:
I never did get a job as an artist
or gallery director.
that fine arts degree
got me a job as a car park attendant
followed by the DSS
and a nervous breakdown
but at the very least
I have real art on my walls

© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 16 May 2018

16th May 2018

high winds
piling up debris
cherry blossom


© Rachel Green 2018

cutting the hedge
was an annual week-long chore.
my father, in overalls
and canvas overcoat
to protect him from the wrath
of hawthorn and holly;
tent canvas laid out
to catch the clippings
and an ever present fire
constantly burning;
dealing with the product
of two thousand feet
of ten-foot high hedging;
the scent of burning twigs
a constant neighbour



© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 15 May 2018

15th May 2018

sparrow
breaking dead stalks from a chives plant
careless dog


© Rachel Green 2018

a chance scent
sweat, tobacco, old spice, old farts
and I think of my father;
his morning routine
of bacon butties
and radio two
while he performs his number twos.
Old armpit sweat,
his braces down
framing his buttocks as he washes in the kitchen sink
white hair, white whiskers,
still red on his arms
where sixty years of freckles pile up
a fake melanin tan
and I am a child again
wasting my life because I can't tell him
"Dad, I'm a girl,"
years spent trying to be someone else
accruing debts, college fees
and suicidal tendencies.


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 14 May 2018

14th May 2016

tulip petals
scattered among the dandelions
dog eggs


© Rachel Green 2018

she constructs paper flowers,
a gift for a lady
just graduating,
They've never met
but her mother,
tragic and desirable,
tells her she was an influence
of the girl's life;
artist, poet, young goddess
she'll take the world by storm
in politics or the arts
a beacon of light
for another generation.


© Rachel Green 2018