A Spidey suit
and a new comic
as a birthday treat.
All day Spiderman
zoomed around the house
climbing the walls (with the aid of a chair)
and shooting nets
from his pump-action wrist guns
until they were lost
between the raspberries
and the rhubarb trees.
Birthday teas
were jelly and ice cream and chocolate fingers
but not for spidermen
who didn’t wash their hands.
“What do you mean,
Spidermen don’t eat chocolate fingers?
I’m not a spiderman really,
I’m just me.”
Saturday 31 January 2009
Friday 30 January 2009
Canine Love
Instant infatuation
as I browse the gardening section
of Wilkinson’s
my fingers fluttering
over new season surprises.
No money to buy the brushwood screen
I coveted last year
and went to buy
the week it went out of stock.
No money to embrace
half a wall stacked with fruiting shrubs,
perennials, annuals,
seeds and summer bulbs.
No money to buy—
wait! A canine sculpture
in copper and steel
with droopy ears
and waggy tail
(on a spring)
and nodding head
(ibid)
and pointy nose
and four little feet
and polished toes
I could hardly contain my glee
I had to buy him – he was just so me
One of a kind and ten pounds to pay
I’ll skimp on the dinner just for today.
Thursday 29 January 2009
Nightkin Day
Snow blankets the scented garden
building up on shrubs and trees
Soil freezes, berries harden
hard to live in times like these.
Stirred from sleep by meager bedding
Nightkin blinks in light of days -
burrows under eaves while shedding
precious fats to winter’s gaze.
Under shelter of the steeple
where the snow has drifted in
evidence of human people
footprints of the bigger kin.
Here he finds discarded tissue
serviette and biscuit crumb
winter cold no more an issue
Nightkin curls in dreamer’s numb.
building up on shrubs and trees
Soil freezes, berries harden
hard to live in times like these.
Stirred from sleep by meager bedding
Nightkin blinks in light of days -
burrows under eaves while shedding
precious fats to winter’s gaze.
Under shelter of the steeple
where the snow has drifted in
evidence of human people
footprints of the bigger kin.
Here he finds discarded tissue
serviette and biscuit crumb
winter cold no more an issue
Nightkin curls in dreamer’s numb.
Wednesday 28 January 2009
The Curious Little Demon Who Sat on My Bannister, ‘Til Two
As I travelled to my bed
I met the oddest fellow, red,
who looked at me with splintered eyes
and asked if I was in disguise.
I said: “Of course I’m not in drag,
do you perceive some filthy hag
to be conversing on the stair?”
He shrugged as if he didn’t care.
“I though you just a foreign chap,”
he said and pulled a felted cap
from a pocket lost from view
“Have you travelled from Peru?”
I said, “You seem a little chilled. Are you?
“A bit,” he said. (His teeth were bared.)
“Aren’t you just a little scared?”
“A bit,” I said, “When I’m in bed
“I’ll wrap the duvet round my head.”
“It’s time,” he said “I heard the bell.
“I guess we’ll meet again…
…in Hell”
I met the oddest fellow, red,
who looked at me with splintered eyes
and asked if I was in disguise.
I said: “Of course I’m not in drag,
do you perceive some filthy hag
to be conversing on the stair?”
He shrugged as if he didn’t care.
“I though you just a foreign chap,”
he said and pulled a felted cap
from a pocket lost from view
“Have you travelled from Peru?”
I said, “You seem a little chilled. Are you?
“A bit,” he said. (His teeth were bared.)
“Aren’t you just a little scared?”
“A bit,” I said, “When I’m in bed
“I’ll wrap the duvet round my head.”
“It’s time,” he said “I heard the bell.
“I guess we’ll meet again…
…in Hell”
Tuesday 27 January 2009
The Painter’s Vision
“Use red for the eyes,” she said, “use red,”
and peered from my shoulder “She’s one of the dead
that haunt the building on Old Carver’s Lane –
Have you felt her cold hands; have your seen her again?”
I told her to hush and gave her a stroke
and tickled her feathers and fed her a roke.
“She’s no more dead than you are, or I,
I’ve not spoken to her but tomorrow I’ll try.”
“You’ll try and you’ll fail,” she said, grooming her tail,
“She’ll open her mouth but her voice has gone stale.
Stick with your figurines, paint four or five
and leave the drowned women for those still alive.”
“Are you saying I’m dead?” I cried with alarm;
“These words that you speak will do nothing but harm.”
“I’m fit as a flea and alive as a herring
I’ll thank you to keep your own thoughts for un-sharing.”
“Of course you are fit,” she replied with a sigh.
“I said it before as the centuries rolled by.
You perfected your art by light of the day
but you shy from the truth, Mister Dorian Gray.”
and peered from my shoulder “She’s one of the dead
that haunt the building on Old Carver’s Lane –
Have you felt her cold hands; have your seen her again?”
I told her to hush and gave her a stroke
and tickled her feathers and fed her a roke.
“She’s no more dead than you are, or I,
I’ve not spoken to her but tomorrow I’ll try.”
“You’ll try and you’ll fail,” she said, grooming her tail,
“She’ll open her mouth but her voice has gone stale.
Stick with your figurines, paint four or five
and leave the drowned women for those still alive.”
“Are you saying I’m dead?” I cried with alarm;
“These words that you speak will do nothing but harm.”
“I’m fit as a flea and alive as a herring
I’ll thank you to keep your own thoughts for un-sharing.”
“Of course you are fit,” she replied with a sigh.
“I said it before as the centuries rolled by.
You perfected your art by light of the day
but you shy from the truth, Mister Dorian Gray.”
Monday 26 January 2009
For Susan
represents my friendship and
the joy you bring me
Just one,
so don’t get too comfortable --
it’s not a bunch.
the joy you bring me
Just one,
so don’t get too comfortable --
it’s not a bunch.
Sunday 25 January 2009
Rowsley Tor
Saturday 24 January 2009
Embers
A pardon
for all the sins
and the blood
and the stillborn children
cast to a sodden grave.
It wasn’t much to ask
of a priest
and a bishop
and a holy man on a horse
but they turned away.
And as the fire seared her flesh
but before the smoke suffocated her
she forgave them.
And the village died
for want of a midwife
and a doctor
and a voice to tell them
when to plant the seeds.
for all the sins
and the blood
and the stillborn children
cast to a sodden grave.
It wasn’t much to ask
of a priest
and a bishop
and a holy man on a horse
but they turned away.
And as the fire seared her flesh
but before the smoke suffocated her
she forgave them.
And the village died
for want of a midwife
and a doctor
and a voice to tell them
when to plant the seeds.
Friday 23 January 2009
Thursday 22 January 2009
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