her death
improves nothing
the fountain of suicides
appeals to her not at all
too late?
© Rachel Green 2016
tiny suns
in a green sky
dandelions
© Rachel Green 2016
teabag
rips in the cup
a swirl of leaves
despite my leafy childhood
I am left dissatisfied
© Rachel Green 2016
a book of poetry
on the queer reader's list
leaves me nonplussed
Amber Dawn’s 'Where the World Ends and My Body Begins'
“a welcome change from the sea of free verse
you usually find written by today’s poets.”
some books are flowers, some are weeds
© Rachel Green 2016
the pain in her head. needy.
© Rachel Green 2016
Saturday 30 April 2016
Friday 29 April 2016
April Poems 2016/29
Guilted Cut
Lily's voice from the television
dropping matches and candle and
the concept of bacteria
though insects didn't bother her.
She goes to church in an unkempt building
drinking with parents in jacket and trousers;
the guilt of wasting an afternoon
with alcohol on her breath.
Her parents would never have approved
a twist of the the relationship between brother
and the man who devours them whole.
English walkers and travellers
relieved of their hangers
leaving only bones behind.
© Rachel Green 2016
short forms29th April 2016
perhaps
I'll abandon
the story of Chloe
focus instead on Jennifer's
baby
© Rachel Green 2016
fresh nettles
along the woodland path
bluebells
© Rachel Green 2016
novella fail
the cold sinking of my soul
rewrite
could I make Mel gay
and maybe Brin?
© Rachel Green 2016
tredidation
heart monitor
to be attached
in a way
I hope they find something
irregular beats
though I think I'm fine
© Rachel Green 2016
her painter's skills are sadly atrophied
© Rachel Green 2016
I'll abandon
the story of Chloe
focus instead on Jennifer's
baby
© Rachel Green 2016
fresh nettles
along the woodland path
bluebells
© Rachel Green 2016
novella fail
the cold sinking of my soul
rewrite
could I make Mel gay
and maybe Brin?
© Rachel Green 2016
tredidation
heart monitor
to be attached
in a way
I hope they find something
irregular beats
though I think I'm fine
© Rachel Green 2016
her painter's skills are sadly atrophied
© Rachel Green 2016
Thursday 28 April 2016
April Poems 2016/28
Important Business
She says goodbye to the
shopkeeper
walks outside into the
sunlight
pauses at the litter
bin
to scratch the silver
from a lottery card.
She throws it in the
bin, continues.
At the corner of the
chip shop
she scratches off her
second card,
hunched over like a
beggar with a cigarette.
You can tell by her
face she's won nothing.
She stuffs it in her
pocket, moves on.
At the end of the
gennel, number three;
the flash of sunlight
from her 10p coin
as she chooses which
windows
which three chances to
win.
Frustrated, she
scratches the rest off,
relieved the card
wasn't a winner at all.
Outside her front door
she rests on the
dustbin lid,
scratches off her
fourth and final.
The smile on her face
as she wins a fiver
not enough to escape
the drudgery
but enough for another
card.
short forms 28th April 2016
maybe
I should write her
ass less sympathetic --
more on an anti-hero like
John Salt
© Rachel Green 2016
overnight snow
silvers tulips with morning
prismatic sun
© Rachel Green 2016
edits
for the best story
I've ever written
Unfortunately, I failed
the basic story call
© Rachel Green 2016
obsession
with a game
takes my time
I can't see me ever finishing
and will probably uninstall it
out of frustration
but until then...
© Rachel Green 2016
a word of criticism - abject depression
© Rachel Green 2016
I should write her
ass less sympathetic --
more on an anti-hero like
John Salt
© Rachel Green 2016
overnight snow
silvers tulips with morning
prismatic sun
© Rachel Green 2016
edits
for the best story
I've ever written
Unfortunately, I failed
the basic story call
© Rachel Green 2016
obsession
with a game
takes my time
I can't see me ever finishing
and will probably uninstall it
out of frustration
but until then...
© Rachel Green 2016
a word of criticism - abject depression
© Rachel Green 2016
Wednesday 27 April 2016
April Poems 2016/27
Over the Field
It'll be all right
he touches the side of his nose
with his middle finger
a conspiratorial nudge harking to some gypsy rite
(he's one quarter gypsy on his mother's side
and has the eyes of his grandmother)
and against my better judgement I let him lead me
through the wood (private, no trespassing)
and along the back of the hawthorn hedge
where last summer's brambles pluck at my jumper,
unpicking the seam where I burned the cuff n the electric fire.
The cow shed is old, unused
and mostly dry thanks to an intact roof
though the rain spits at us through glassless windows
and the lime from crumbling mortar whitens our clothes.
He builds a fire in the middle,
a circle of sandstone boulders dredged from the canal
England's Glory kissing the edges
of yesterday's Sun,
dancing through straw and crackling pine needles
birch and alder twigs send shadows dancing.
He opens a can of Tizer,
offers half a Bounty bar.
The repast of Kings as his hand brushes my leg,
his fingernails caked with dirt and ash.
My heard thumping under my anorak.
The reflection of blue lights
against the crumbling brickwork
and he's off
a rabbit catching the scent of hounds
leaving the carrot untouched
with my knickers still around my ankles
when the officer shines a torch inside.
© Rachel Green 2016
Thank you for stopping by
short forms 27th April 2016
she tries
to kill herself
but is thwarted each time
freak accidents plague her attempts.
demons?
© Rachel Green 2016
frigid air
around the forsythia blooms
blackbird hen
© Rachel Green 2016
paintings
oil on canvas
delight
Despite my love of them
they'll never sell
© Rachel Green 2016
neighbour
of one of our tenants
comes to complain
their lad kicks his football
against her fence
it's downright annoying
as are you, dear lady
© Rachel Green 2016
"stone the crows." Father's last words.
© Rachel Green 2016
to kill herself
but is thwarted each time
freak accidents plague her attempts.
demons?
© Rachel Green 2016
frigid air
around the forsythia blooms
blackbird hen
© Rachel Green 2016
paintings
oil on canvas
delight
Despite my love of them
they'll never sell
© Rachel Green 2016
neighbour
of one of our tenants
comes to complain
their lad kicks his football
against her fence
it's downright annoying
as are you, dear lady
© Rachel Green 2016
"stone the crows." Father's last words.
© Rachel Green 2016
Tuesday 26 April 2016
April Poems 2016/26
Fishwife
He says I'm cold
unemotional.
I can forget people
entirely
in a time proportionate
to how long I've known them.
I have no memories of
the hundred or so girls
I had a one night stand
with;
nothing but a faceless
mask in the bedroom
(or kitchen, bus
shelter or this one time
on the top of a double
decker bus we were painting
though I think she was
a redhead. Or was that me?)
Past lovers get deleted
from memory
because I need the
storage space for stories
snippets of
conversation I hear on the street
and he's disturbed by
the ease
I forget people once
held so dear;
by the assumption that
after twenty years
he would forget me as
easily as I would forget him.
I blame it on my mother
dying when I was too young
to have developed
social intercourse
but the bottom line, I
can reluctantly admit,
is I'm just an asshole.
short forms 26th April 2016
thirty
minutes of life
waiting for a pizza
then another hour to eat.
Ice cream?
© Rachel Green 2016
cherry flowers
along a blustery road
wind-blown rubbish
© Rachel Green 2016
date night
to a 3D film
remade classic
To be honest, the best bit
is stress-free partner time
© Rachel Green 2016
infection
makes him worried
antibiotics
his left ear
completely blocked
a mass of pus
slivers of throat needles
© Rachel Green 2016
blessed sleep. The anxiety of dreams.
© Rachel Green 2016
minutes of life
waiting for a pizza
then another hour to eat.
Ice cream?
© Rachel Green 2016
cherry flowers
along a blustery road
wind-blown rubbish
© Rachel Green 2016
date night
to a 3D film
remade classic
To be honest, the best bit
is stress-free partner time
© Rachel Green 2016
infection
makes him worried
antibiotics
his left ear
completely blocked
a mass of pus
slivers of throat needles
© Rachel Green 2016
blessed sleep. The anxiety of dreams.
© Rachel Green 2016
Monday 25 April 2016
April Poems 2016/25
Krav Maga
Thirty seconds
never sounds a long time
until you're approaching exhaustion
then thirty seconds feels like an hour
with every muscle screaming
begging for rest, for relief.
It seems easy at first
thirty seconds of shin kicks
ten seconds of rest
thirty seconds of knee strikes
elbow strikes
front kicks
hammer fists
side kicks
palm strikes
groin kicks
open palms
thirty seconds
thirty seconds
thirty seconds.
Six minutes
doesn't sound like much exercise
but quite often it's the length of a street fight
when survival on the line
and the next thirty seconds
means life or death.
© Rachel Green 2016
Thirty seconds
never sounds a long time
until you're approaching exhaustion
then thirty seconds feels like an hour
with every muscle screaming
begging for rest, for relief.
It seems easy at first
thirty seconds of shin kicks
ten seconds of rest
thirty seconds of knee strikes
elbow strikes
front kicks
hammer fists
side kicks
palm strikes
groin kicks
open palms
thirty seconds
thirty seconds
thirty seconds.
Six minutes
doesn't sound like much exercise
but quite often it's the length of a street fight
when survival on the line
and the next thirty seconds
means life or death.
© Rachel Green 2016
short forms 25th April 2016
a wish
favourite food
her orders her a pizza.
Wasn't it traditionally
conjured?
© Rachel Green 2016
raindrops
racing across the pavement
two black slugs
© Rachel Green 2016
the dog
terrified by visitors
and beards
at least she come downstairs
to begin barking
© Rachel Green 2016
helping a friend
to move house
heavy furniture
I advise in the event of a stroke
to roll me to one side
out of the way
just hire a skip
© Rachel Green 2016
exhaustion sets in. She doesn't move.
© Rachel Green 2016
favourite food
her orders her a pizza.
Wasn't it traditionally
conjured?
© Rachel Green 2016
raindrops
racing across the pavement
two black slugs
© Rachel Green 2016
the dog
terrified by visitors
and beards
at least she come downstairs
to begin barking
© Rachel Green 2016
helping a friend
to move house
heavy furniture
I advise in the event of a stroke
to roll me to one side
out of the way
just hire a skip
© Rachel Green 2016
exhaustion sets in. She doesn't move.
© Rachel Green 2016
Sunday 24 April 2016
April Poems 2016/24
Legacy
Five silver spoons
in a velvet-lined box
each topped with an
apostle
a gift from my
grandmother
on my parents' wedding
day.
My sister tagged them
with a post-it note
on her visit to our
father's house
the day after pneumonia
took him
changed her mind when
she saw one missing.
It wasn't just the
spoons;
she marked up the
silverware, the crystal,
the drop-leaf table
with the William Morris carving;
bagged the money in the
top-left drawer and said:
Let's not bother
with a headstone.
When the house sold I
cleared his garden.
Cut down my mother's
roses,
his dahlias, the
wisteria I planted when I was a child;
bagged up the compost
heap
(it was too good to
waste)
and right at the
bottom, bright from being under the earth
was the missing
apostle.
My father's chuckle
from the grave
and the robin he fed
with garden worms
alighted on the garden
spade.
short forms 24th April 2016
tipsy
on fruit cider
she makes a decision
she'll regret for the longest time.
Wanted.
© Rachel Green 2016
light rain
yesterday's mown lawn
sparrow's buffet
© Rachel Green 2016
terrified dog
creeps downstairs
won't eat
The guest in the office
is too much for her
© Rachel Green 2016
three hours
carting soil
and digging
front garden
starting to take shape
for selling
a few dwarf conifers
© Rachel Green 2016
so tired she forgot her poetry
© Rachel Green 2016
on fruit cider
she makes a decision
she'll regret for the longest time.
Wanted.
© Rachel Green 2016
light rain
yesterday's mown lawn
sparrow's buffet
© Rachel Green 2016
terrified dog
creeps downstairs
won't eat
The guest in the office
is too much for her
© Rachel Green 2016
three hours
carting soil
and digging
front garden
starting to take shape
for selling
a few dwarf conifers
© Rachel Green 2016
so tired she forgot her poetry
© Rachel Green 2016
April Poems 2016/22
Stark Raving Mad
My father rarely got
angry, preferred
to languish in the
relative high ground
of mocking sarcasm,
rolled eyes and
a sad, sad shake of the
head
as if the stupidity of
man,
or in this case
children,
was utterly beyond
belief.
He was angry when I set
fire to the shed.
I didn't mean to. I
only lit a match to scare away rats
but the floorboard were
shot through with rot,
friable as cotton wool
on a summer evening.
I got a hiding that
day.
He was angry when I
broke a window'
He'd told me not the
throw my ball at the wall,
warned me what would
happen
but I did it anyway.
I got a hiding that
day.
He was angry when I
almost shot him.
For a country without
guns
it's surprisingly easy
to make a cannon
from copper tubing and
basic chemistry.
The stainless steel
ball bearing missed his head by an inch;
had to be dug out of
the door post.
I got a hiding that
day.
He was angry when I was
arrested at fourteen
shoplifting a girlie
magazine
from the newsagent on
the market
couldn't understand why
I was looking at naked women
and me such a good
Catholic and all.
“Are you stark raving
mad?”
He didn't speak again
for a week.
(I forgot to post this on Friday)
April Poems 2016/23
Victoria June 1998
She's had too much to
drink
and teeter-totters on
expensive shoes
trying to both stay
upright on the rain-slick pavement
and not twist her feet
to risk snapping off
a hundred quid's worth
of heel.
A broken ankle is a
secondary thought
as she slips on a
pancaked Bulmer's tin
in the driveway to a
maisonette.
She giggles and
clutches my arm
bitching about the
so-called friends
we left at the club and
how Cassie's boyfriend
tried to grope her tits
in the smoking shelter.
Brutal honesty from the
black-smeared lips
of a girl normally so
reserved
so when I ask her if
she loves me I get
of course not, you
narna.
I laugh and turn it all
into a huge joke
but behind the mask of
a smile
my soul has been
crushed
like the tin can we saw
on the road.
Saturday 23 April 2016
short forms 23rd April 2016
cider
sweet and flavoured
gets herself very drunk
time to get the ouija board out.
Spirits.
© Rachel Green 2016
white flowers
chamomile blooms.
honeybees
© Rachel Green 2016
digging compost
three years of garden waste
rich loam
Evening out the ground
for a new lawn
© Rachel Green 2016
surprise party
for a thirty year old daughter
in a pub
too many people
ramp up my anxiety
noise and conversation
I retreat to my kindle
© Rachel Green 2016
flashes of eye shadow. An effort.
© Rachel Green 2016
sweet and flavoured
gets herself very drunk
time to get the ouija board out.
Spirits.
© Rachel Green 2016
white flowers
chamomile blooms.
honeybees
© Rachel Green 2016
digging compost
three years of garden waste
rich loam
Evening out the ground
for a new lawn
© Rachel Green 2016
surprise party
for a thirty year old daughter
in a pub
too many people
ramp up my anxiety
noise and conversation
I retreat to my kindle
© Rachel Green 2016
flashes of eye shadow. An effort.
© Rachel Green 2016
Friday 22 April 2016
short forms 22nd April 2016
stories
told to children
around the campfire
when their parent's bodies are still
burning
© Rachel Green 2016
morning sun
occluded by clouds
petals close
© Rachel Green 2016
hometime
a toddler climbs on DK's bike
photo op
Her mum shoos her off it
slinks away
© Rachel Green 2016
shining chrome
the creep of rust
around the rims
plastic fades
becomes brittle
sheds fibres
the land reclaims
© Rachel Green 2016
she spends money she doesn't have
© Rachel Green 2016
told to children
around the campfire
when their parent's bodies are still
burning
© Rachel Green 2016
morning sun
occluded by clouds
petals close
© Rachel Green 2016
hometime
a toddler climbs on DK's bike
photo op
Her mum shoos her off it
slinks away
© Rachel Green 2016
shining chrome
the creep of rust
around the rims
plastic fades
becomes brittle
sheds fibres
the land reclaims
© Rachel Green 2016
she spends money she doesn't have
© Rachel Green 2016
Thursday 21 April 2016
April poems 2016/21
A snowy morning--
by myself,
chewing on dried salmon.
- Matsuo Basho
A father I once knew,
in the days when the
Beatles were still together
and Pink Floyd still
played gigs to small audiences,
sent his son to
Scotland
to make a man of
himself.
Hard to believe, I
know, but this was before mobile phones
and computers and iPads
and mobile dongles –
we relied n notebooks
and cameras the size of handbags;
public telephone boxes
which took a stack of two pence pices.
As luck would have it,
Ben Nevis shook snow
from a hundred heavy
clouds,
isolating the peaks
and dragging down the
telephone lines
until all he could do
was read and write poems
and partake of the few
pastimes in the cottage let.
Ben Nevis
occluded by snow in May
colouring book
A Month of Writing Prompts 2016
In liew of a review:
A Month of Writing Prompts 2016
by Julie Duffy
Kindle edition £2.10
As a multi-published novelist, I agreed to review an advance copy of this (Full disclosure, I was given a free copy) and honestly found it useful. I've been a bit haphazard with my writing goals lately and haven't published a novel in a couple of years so thought I'd try it out. It's really rather splendid. It does take me out of my comfort zone (every day requires a new, finished short story -- or a least a rough draft thereof -- and I was expecting to stay in my own style, which I can't do. If you want to kickstart your writing, or just flex a few literary muscles, this is the book for you.
A Month of Writing Prompts 2016
by Julie Duffy
Kindle edition £2.10
So much more than 31 writing prompts, this fun collection---packed with personality---gives you short story prompts designed to work with the topics and genres that already interest you. Each prompt comes with tips to jump-start your writing and help you dig deeper into the story.
As a multi-published novelist, I agreed to review an advance copy of this (Full disclosure, I was given a free copy) and honestly found it useful. I've been a bit haphazard with my writing goals lately and haven't published a novel in a couple of years so thought I'd try it out. It's really rather splendid. It does take me out of my comfort zone (every day requires a new, finished short story -- or a least a rough draft thereof -- and I was expecting to stay in my own style, which I can't do. If you want to kickstart your writing, or just flex a few literary muscles, this is the book for you.
short forms 21st April 2016
she buys
acrylic paints
to decorate the house
flowers and animals to raise
her mood
© Rachel Green 2016
blackbird hen
washing herself in the dew
plum blossom
© Rachel Green 2016
poorly child
doesn't want to work overtime
despite pressure
doc's appointment arranged
boss can't argue.
© Rachel Green 2016
the front garden
removed and composted
for a lawn
the neighbours like it
(it was such a mess before)
now it lets in light.
I don't mention it's to sell the house.
© Rachel Green 2016
she wakes early again. Another nightmare.
© Rachel Green 2016
acrylic paints
to decorate the house
flowers and animals to raise
her mood
© Rachel Green 2016
blackbird hen
washing herself in the dew
plum blossom
© Rachel Green 2016
poorly child
doesn't want to work overtime
despite pressure
doc's appointment arranged
boss can't argue.
© Rachel Green 2016
the front garden
removed and composted
for a lawn
the neighbours like it
(it was such a mess before)
now it lets in light.
I don't mention it's to sell the house.
© Rachel Green 2016
she wakes early again. Another nightmare.
© Rachel Green 2016
Wednesday 20 April 2016
April Poetry 2016/20
Unsaid
No perfume, just the
musk of a day
spent writing at the
computer, spruced
with the fresh scent of
soap clinging
to her arms and
armpits. No makeup.
Shadows falling on her
face define her eyes,
her lips, her
cheekbones, the hollows
and roadways left when
her youth departed,
the topography of
wisdom, of lessons learned
and freedoms won,
little by little.
Her hair falls free,
unbrushed, curled
and spiralled from
drying naturally.
No bra, no girdle. Her
breasts hang naturally,
pulling her shoulders
taut and her belly
always too big and now
too full of fear
to do more than reflect
the gaze
of the lascivious. She
doesn't care.
The lines around her
mouth tighten.
She could break a man's
arm with one movement,
shatter his floating
ribs with a punch
break his neck with a
two-step shuffle.
She says nothing, but
the casual insult hurled her way
still makes her flinch.
She smiles anyway.
short forms April 20th 2016
Dapper.
her father's suit
fits her after fashion
has left to find a dark corner.
Her style.
© Rachel Green 2016
tree stump
difficult to remove
a robin's perch
© Rachel Green 2016
garden compost
laboriously dug out
barrowloads
filling in a large hole
my aching back
© Rachel Green 2016
oils
rendered on canvas
renewed interest
I remember the delight
of a skillfully placed brush
the depth of colour
non-figurative
© Rachel Green 2016
blinding headache. was it the art?
© Rachel Green 2016
her father's suit
fits her after fashion
has left to find a dark corner.
Her style.
© Rachel Green 2016
tree stump
difficult to remove
a robin's perch
© Rachel Green 2016
garden compost
laboriously dug out
barrowloads
filling in a large hole
my aching back
© Rachel Green 2016
oils
rendered on canvas
renewed interest
I remember the delight
of a skillfully placed brush
the depth of colour
non-figurative
© Rachel Green 2016
blinding headache. was it the art?
© Rachel Green 2016
Tuesday 19 April 2016
April Poems 2016/19
Tim and Gary
Tim was the coolest guy
in school
long hair, great taste
in music –
Eno, Hillage, Buckley,
801,
This was in the days of
vinyl,
when even cassettes
were new and expensive
and the lady across the
road worked at Boots
where she could order
anything at all.
He had groupies, the
Art crowd
who did A level art and
maybe English
or one of the social
sciences.
I had a crush on him,
we all did,
but I was a
maths-physics-chemistry student
and our paths crossed
only at lunchtime
and on the bus.
I went out with Gary –
the guy who rubbed
his crotch then licked
his hands. He bought me rum
and told me I was the
best dancer he'd ever seen
until I was sick all
over his shoes.
He shouldn't have
bought me the wine,
Ever the gentleman he
walked me to the bus stop,
let me have a couple of
his chips
but he'd drowned them
in vinegar.
Gary left school at
sixteen, got an apprenticeship
and worked in the
spring factory in Redditch.
Tim went to college and
got a degree,
worked in Sainsbury's
with his hair cut short,
lived in his parent's
house with his wall of albums
and one surviving piece
of art from school.
short forms 19th April 2016
dad's suit
smells of mothballs
and is totally rad
for her to customise with pink.
Business.
© Rachel Green 2016
low sun
blinding early morning
the haze of frost
© Rachel Green 2016
transplanting flowers
from the front garden
to the back
I hope the shrimp bush survives
ditto, raspberry canes
© Rachel Green 2016
a barrow of compost
needed for the garden
wheeled up from the bottom
Every handful
a rich scent of childhood
recycling joy
All this was food scraps
© Rachel Green 2016
old man's suit. Back in fashion.
© Rachel Green 2016
smells of mothballs
and is totally rad
for her to customise with pink.
Business.
© Rachel Green 2016
low sun
blinding early morning
the haze of frost
© Rachel Green 2016
transplanting flowers
from the front garden
to the back
I hope the shrimp bush survives
ditto, raspberry canes
© Rachel Green 2016
a barrow of compost
needed for the garden
wheeled up from the bottom
Every handful
a rich scent of childhood
recycling joy
All this was food scraps
© Rachel Green 2016
old man's suit. Back in fashion.
© Rachel Green 2016
Monday 18 April 2016
April Poems 2016/18
They don't like
Lesbian
Mrs Vordstone, with her
canary yellow walls
and her husband's an
architect, you know,
she only works here
because she gets bored
and her salary provides
a second holiday.
Have you seen the
pictures of us on safari?
It was too hot, really.
I wouldn't go again.
Not in the summer,
anyway, and besides,
we're putting a
conservatory on the back of the house.
Are you going anywhere
nice, Tina?
Young, vivacious, fond
of a bottle of red
when she leaves the
office but won't date
anyone past eleven
because her cat expects her home,
She calls her underwear
'pants' and flirts with the gay guy
who detests lesbians
and won't give them the time of day.
He lives with a
solicitor, goes to church on Sundays
and holidays, shows his
knickers to his subordinates
and asks for coffee
without sugar because he's sweet enough.
Isn't that right, Jo?
Down to earth, comes from Dudley
where the pinnacle of
achievement is to have your name
printed in the local
rag as long as it's not in the convicted pages.
Her fiancée is a
mechanic, which would be handy if she
ever agreed to
introduce him but her yellow Clio
is always in good nick.
Not like hers. They don't speak to her
except to ask about
cases or to pass work on
because lets face it,
she's faster than them and outstrips
even the manager in
brains-per-square-hipster.
She pretends not to
care, has a nervous breakdown
on her way to work but
nobody sends a card.
short forms 18th April 2016
the church
a summer fete
the domestic marquee
provides an unexpected point
to land
© Rachel Green 2016
sparrows
flooding the front garden
morning rain
© Rachel Green 2016
house sorting
two hundred pictures
disposed of
Some donated to charity
most to the council tip
© Rachel Green 2016
old tyres
full of soil
makeshift wall
covered in a mix
of concrete and compost
painted with lime
lasting a lifetime
© Rachel Green 2016
Decluttering. One bag at a time.
© Rachel Green 2016
a summer fete
the domestic marquee
provides an unexpected point
to land
© Rachel Green 2016
sparrows
flooding the front garden
morning rain
© Rachel Green 2016
house sorting
two hundred pictures
disposed of
Some donated to charity
most to the council tip
© Rachel Green 2016
old tyres
full of soil
makeshift wall
covered in a mix
of concrete and compost
painted with lime
lasting a lifetime
© Rachel Green 2016
Decluttering. One bag at a time.
© Rachel Green 2016
Sunday 17 April 2016
April Poetry 2016/17
A47 6:33 AM
a fallow deer, bleeding
on the roadside
waiting for death or
rescue.
I wonder what it thinks
as I approach.
Does in fear me? Blame
me for hurting it
despite my arrival a
moment ago?
Or does it think I am
its redeemer,
come to release it to
some foreign land.
Does she she have a
concept of death?
She struggles to rise,
the movement
shaking dew from the
encircling shrubs
and drops of dew
glisten on the perfect velvet of her coat
holding worlds in
miniature, fingers of dawn
turning the Moon's
shroud pink.
Her eyelids flutter and
the bright spark in her pupil fades.
The eyes turn dull.
A single tear runs down
a suddenly cold cheek
and I turn away.
Short forms 17th April 2016
too late
she has regrets
about her choice of death
throwing herself off the church spire
freak wind
© Rachel Green 2016
warn sun
overturned earth
robin red-breast
© Rachel Green 2016
a few hours
in the front garden
clearing
just the tree stumps to take out
and the dead plants to remove
© Rachel Green 2016
Amazon reviews
I read a recipe book
I don't like
Too many meat dishes
followed by desserts
figs and honey
I can feel my teeth rotting
© Rachel Green 2016
exercise. Now she can hardly walk.
© Rachel Green 2016
she has regrets
about her choice of death
throwing herself off the church spire
freak wind
© Rachel Green 2016
warn sun
overturned earth
robin red-breast
© Rachel Green 2016
a few hours
in the front garden
clearing
just the tree stumps to take out
and the dead plants to remove
© Rachel Green 2016
Amazon reviews
I read a recipe book
I don't like
Too many meat dishes
followed by desserts
figs and honey
I can feel my teeth rotting
© Rachel Green 2016
exercise. Now she can hardly walk.
© Rachel Green 2016
Saturday 16 April 2016
April Poems 2016/16
Midnight Chips
It was cold in the
night café.
An old Victorian
glasshouse
panes mirrored by
darkness
steamed by boiling
kettles
and a semi-rusty
espresso machine.
He smiled at us,
indulgent of young customers
though I suspect I was
older than he.
She had hot chocolate,
I, tea,
though the draught from
the door
was enough to raise the
flesh on my stockinged legs.
We shared chips, cooked
fresh in the microwave
behind the till, though
she liked too much tomato
sauce in her tea and
sugar on her chips
but she talked about
art and music
and wrote Gothic poetry
in purple ink
on sheets of graph
paper she nicked from school.
It was two in the
morning when I walked her home
and kissed her in the
darkness
of an underground car
park.
It took her by surprise
because she wasn't into me
but she laughed anyway,
clicking her tongue stud
against her cheek as
she walked away.
Friday 15 April 2016
April poetry 2016/15
Enough for Sweets
and a Comic
A message scrawled on
the back of an envelope
in lieu of paper –
my mother was frugal,
even her diary was
built of butcher's foolscap
and cast-off scraps of
newspaper –
here is the tooth
that came out today
illustrated by a
crude, five-year old's depiction
of a face with a
missing tooth,
a ring with an arrow
pointing to the gap.
I'd hoped for a
sixpence, pre 1920 for preference
or at least pre-1946. A
shilling was too much
to expect, even then I
knew my parents were poor
but thruppenny bit
seemed too mean,
although I knew my dad
had a tin of them.
The tooth, and the
note, under a flat pillow;
the cotton one with
lines of rainbow hues
with the feely corner
darned in black.
And sleep, among the
fox-dark sounds
of wind among the
treetops and wood pigeons
heralding the morning
light when I woke
and there was no coin
beneath my pillow,
just my old tooth and
the ragged scraps of trust.
short forms 15th April 2016
despair
her suicide,
though a failed attempt,
opens new possibilities.
escape
© Rachel Green 2016
morning thrush
observes he removal of ivy
panicked snails
© Rachel Green 2016
banana
first thing of the day
before breakfast
I can't consume dairy
until my meds digest
© Rachel Green 2016
MRI scan
My head clamped down
to look at my brain
despite the noise
I manage to sleep
for twenty minutes
overcoming claustrophobia
© Rachel Green 2016
digging up the past. Her grief.
© Rachel Green 2016
her suicide,
though a failed attempt,
opens new possibilities.
escape
© Rachel Green 2016
morning thrush
observes he removal of ivy
panicked snails
© Rachel Green 2016
banana
first thing of the day
before breakfast
I can't consume dairy
until my meds digest
© Rachel Green 2016
MRI scan
My head clamped down
to look at my brain
despite the noise
I manage to sleep
for twenty minutes
overcoming claustrophobia
© Rachel Green 2016
digging up the past. Her grief.
© Rachel Green 2016
Thursday 14 April 2016
April Poetry 2016/14
After the Day
My father didn't know
how to speak to me
His grief overwhelming
his dead wife reflected
in my fourteen year old face.
He ignored me, Went to
work.
Watched television and
went to bed early,
smoking cigarettes as
if they were oxygen tanks
in the thin atmosphere
of depression.
I turned to religion
looking for answers in
the catechism,
hope in the depictions
of Bridget, of Mary,
of Ceridwen, of
Morrigan;
in sprayer and blood
magic and sacrifice
but She gave no more
reply than my father.
My sister did her best,
drove me to school in a
van filled with saddles
seventies music and the
smell of wet dog,
bought me yoghurt and
frosted cereal
but the only time I
could relax my stoic face
was walking the dogs in
the summer dusk,
when the bats swooped
over the canal
feasting on gnats and
midges
and there was no-one
but the darkness
to hear my sobbing.
short forms 14th April 2016
hostile
to her new mum
her dad, disappointed,
sends her to calm down in her room.
Online.
© Rachel Green 2016
morning drizzle
a knot of sparrows
fresh leaves
© Rachel Green 2016
the 6:30 run
to drop Lu at the station
is easy
Today's eight am run
backed up with traffic
© Rachel Green 2016
Lu
a trip to Sheffield
returns the fourth laptop
this one worked for an hour
before the screen died
HP Spectre
She seems happier with the fifth
© Rachel Green 2016
anxiety. Brain scan reveals her idiocy.
© Rachel Green 2016
to her new mum
her dad, disappointed,
sends her to calm down in her room.
Online.
© Rachel Green 2016
morning drizzle
a knot of sparrows
fresh leaves
© Rachel Green 2016
the 6:30 run
to drop Lu at the station
is easy
Today's eight am run
backed up with traffic
© Rachel Green 2016
Lu
a trip to Sheffield
returns the fourth laptop
this one worked for an hour
before the screen died
HP Spectre
She seems happier with the fifth
© Rachel Green 2016
anxiety. Brain scan reveals her idiocy.
© Rachel Green 2016
Wednesday 13 April 2016
April Poems 2016/13
Seventeen Stops
The whine of an
electric motor
and the sharp, iron
smell of the rails
in the underground
station.
A rat scurries along
the rail, paws
in single file, tail
held high and well away from the live.
Beneath a poster for
the Money at the Tate,
a spot of yellow on
sooted tracks
a dropped M&M,
peanut style,
a prize to take home
for the kids
all seven of them and
the missus is pregnant again already.
He may have to venture
to street level
for a cast-off Kentucky
or starch fried McD's
but the display board
says one minute
before the last train
on the Northern line.
Time to duck to the
sleepers.
A tube of wind blows
litter from the tunnel
and the flashing snake
of the Tube
screeches brakes to
slow.
Stand clear of the
doors.
One
person gets out, the last pilgrim to Leicester Square
where
every theatre runs the same show year after year
and
only the food franchises change with the seasons.
Three
get on to take their places
among
the day's newspapers and ticket stubs.
Tinny
music from ear bud headphones
and
everyone staring at their phones
except
for one lad drinking lager
and
swearing at the Muslim girl three seats down
who
hasn't made a sound.
Heaven
is for whites only, he says,
and
spits on the floor. The train slows, stops,
speeds
up once more. Night sky replaces tunnel walls.
Seven
more stations until High Barnet.
short forms 13th April 2016
missed call
on the machine
an old lady's wrong number
with a message full of pathos
ringback
© Rachel Green 2016
tiny flowers
glinting on the rosemary
morning sun
© Rachel Green 2016
daughter in law
coming to clean the house
while I'm incapable
I have the urgent desire
to vacuum round first
© Rachel Green 2016
painting
oil on board
Jasfoup in red
I'd forgotten
how long oils took to dry
wet canvasses
beautiful smell
© Rachel Green 2016
an ache in her face. Stroke?
© Rachel Green 2016
on the machine
an old lady's wrong number
with a message full of pathos
ringback
© Rachel Green 2016
tiny flowers
glinting on the rosemary
morning sun
© Rachel Green 2016
daughter in law
coming to clean the house
while I'm incapable
I have the urgent desire
to vacuum round first
© Rachel Green 2016
painting
oil on board
Jasfoup in red
I'd forgotten
how long oils took to dry
wet canvasses
beautiful smell
© Rachel Green 2016
an ache in her face. Stroke?
© Rachel Green 2016
Tuesday 12 April 2016
Speaking into Silence
Message received 19 march
from (redacted)
Hello Ada.
I think I got right number.
its Florence.
I just want to ring and tell you that Heather... Heather Pete has just been this morning and given me communion and I feel great.
I feel great now.
I thought I would let you know.
I hope you get your message... this message... all right.
Bye.
Chloe hadn't even known they had an answering service until she'd received the letter telling her she was about not to have. It seemed her dad had been paying eleven pounds a month for the privilege of confusing old ladies. She was tempted to call the number to tell Maisy her message hadn't gone through to Edna but it was a month old now and any conversation might be awkward.
Florence sounded nice, though, like Gran used to sound when she was giving Chloe chocolate on the sly. She missed Gran. More than Mom and Dad, to be honest, but not as much as she missed Buster.
She pulled on the headset, her mouse skimming over the dialling pad before she talked herself out of it. It rang once... twice... A man answered. “Hello?”
“Oh, Hello.” Chloe swallowed her social terror. “May I speak to Florence, please?”
“Mrs Allcot? She died, love, I'm sorry. Two weeks ago. I'm clearing out her bungalow for the council. Are you a relative?”
Chloe didn't know why, but she answered yes.
from (redacted)
Hello Ada.
I think I got right number.
its Florence.
I just want to ring and tell you that Heather... Heather Pete has just been this morning and given me communion and I feel great.
I feel great now.
I thought I would let you know.
I hope you get your message... this message... all right.
Bye.
Chloe hadn't even known they had an answering service until she'd received the letter telling her she was about not to have. It seemed her dad had been paying eleven pounds a month for the privilege of confusing old ladies. She was tempted to call the number to tell Maisy her message hadn't gone through to Edna but it was a month old now and any conversation might be awkward.
Florence sounded nice, though, like Gran used to sound when she was giving Chloe chocolate on the sly. She missed Gran. More than Mom and Dad, to be honest, but not as much as she missed Buster.
She pulled on the headset, her mouse skimming over the dialling pad before she talked herself out of it. It rang once... twice... A man answered. “Hello?”
“Oh, Hello.” Chloe swallowed her social terror. “May I speak to Florence, please?”
“Mrs Allcot? She died, love, I'm sorry. Two weeks ago. I'm clearing out her bungalow for the council. Are you a relative?”
Chloe didn't know why, but she answered yes.
The Dog's Dinner
Product Review
I do not like this,
mom, he said
it tastes like
cardboard. Is your head
some place else today?
I cannot eat
these biscuits dry, I
need some meat.
The stuff you've put
here in my bowl
needs liquid on it.
gravy, cheese. I'll roll
in something nice
outside. The smell
will maybe prompt the
dinner bell
when you'll give me
something tasty.
I'll tell you what.
I'll eat your pastry.
Animal Welfare, I will
phone
without some ham or
juicy bone
And if, perchance, you
give me some
I'll kiss you when I've
licked my feet.
short forms 12th April 2016
fear
of the darkness
not because of the things
that go bump in the night but from
people
© Rachel Green 2016
morning rain
outside the cafe window
pigeons steal chips
© Rachel Green 2016
poetry
comes hard on the heels
of depression
on the plus side
it's an improvement
© Rachel Green 2016
dashing out
for a cinema trip
afternoon delight
DK and I laugh
until our sides hurt
Lina doesn't get it
life experience
© Rachel Green 2016
she promises one thing: continued life
© Rachel Green 2016
of the darkness
not because of the things
that go bump in the night but from
people
© Rachel Green 2016
morning rain
outside the cafe window
pigeons steal chips
© Rachel Green 2016
poetry
comes hard on the heels
of depression
on the plus side
it's an improvement
© Rachel Green 2016
dashing out
for a cinema trip
afternoon delight
DK and I laugh
until our sides hurt
Lina doesn't get it
life experience
© Rachel Green 2016
she promises one thing: continued life
© Rachel Green 2016
Monday 11 April 2016
April Poems 2016/11
A Response to the
Question “Have You Told Her Yet?”
Her front door clicks
shut.
He'd hoped for a
hinge-rattling slam
shaking the adjacent
window in its frame
(was it too much to ask
to shatter?)
but the door is
fire-safe
a pneumatic arm closes
it silently
reducing his dramatic
exit
of “I'm leaving you
forever,”
to the apologetic
murmur
“I'll see myself
out.”
At the bottom of the
path he kicks the gate
stubs his toe of the
wall and curses.
One look back at the
house and a shout
“You'll not get that
divorce.
I'll stay with the wife
now”
but she has no response
while Eastenders is on.
short forms 11th April 2016
school fight
another girl
climbs the social ladder
her last pair of lacy knickers
ripped
© Rachel Green 2016
pink tinges
in the morning sky
black wings
© Rachel Green 2016
gym ball
used as a seat
for gaming
I can feel the ache
in the backs of my legs
© Rachel Green 2016
garden clearing
we light a bonfire
dusk warmth
laurel leaves
a blaze of glory
crackling
ash motes rising
© Rachel Green 2016
rubbing away facial tiredness. Sandpaper hands.
© Rachel Green 2016
another girl
climbs the social ladder
her last pair of lacy knickers
ripped
© Rachel Green 2016
pink tinges
in the morning sky
black wings
© Rachel Green 2016
gym ball
used as a seat
for gaming
I can feel the ache
in the backs of my legs
© Rachel Green 2016
garden clearing
we light a bonfire
dusk warmth
laurel leaves
a blaze of glory
crackling
ash motes rising
© Rachel Green 2016
rubbing away facial tiredness. Sandpaper hands.
© Rachel Green 2016
Sunday 10 April 2016
April Poems 2016/10
Obsessive
He stalks her facebook
profile,
likes every post she
makes;
every twitter,
every instagram,
every photo she uploads
to the cloud
whether she marks it
public or not.
He knows her mother's
maiden name
the street she grew up
on,
her first pet.
Her telephone number
ends in oh-eight-eight,
her bank account in
four-one-seven
and her passport in
twenty-three-f.
He's photoshopped her
into pictures,
replacing his mum at
Blackpool Pleasure Beach,
Alton Towers,
Brighton Pavilion,
and shows his mates the
picture he took of her
naked from the waist up
that she sent three
years ago to her then boyfriend
when he was serving in
Afghanistan.
She told her bessie she
thinks he's harmless.
He knows the exact
words she used
and mouths them along
with the video
he shot on her bedroom
spy-cam.
short forms 10th April 2016
her dog
found dead upstairs
after eating some meat
he had found in the back garden.
Poisoned.
© Rachel Green 2016
morning mist
across the road
vanished houses
© Rachel Green 2016
her laptop
third in a week
to be returned
She has the worst luck
with mail order
© Rachel Green 2016
determination
has me running around the garden
with a reciprocating saw
buddleias cut down,
fruit trees pruned
bay tree removed
rain prevents disposal
© Rachel Green 2016
dreaming of archery. She shoots dogs.
© Rachel Green 2016
found dead upstairs
after eating some meat
he had found in the back garden.
Poisoned.
© Rachel Green 2016
morning mist
across the road
vanished houses
© Rachel Green 2016
her laptop
third in a week
to be returned
She has the worst luck
with mail order
© Rachel Green 2016
determination
has me running around the garden
with a reciprocating saw
buddleias cut down,
fruit trees pruned
bay tree removed
rain prevents disposal
© Rachel Green 2016
dreaming of archery. She shoots dogs.
© Rachel Green 2016
Saturday 9 April 2016
April Poetry 2016/09
Witch's Hovel
Rain patters on the
curved corrugated iron
left over when dad dug
out the Anderson shelter
We've made a den of it,
me and the boy from down the road
with walls made from
scavenged pallets
sheets of plastic
thumb-tacked to the outside to keep the rain out.
In the spring we'll
cover it in mud bricks
painted dry with lime
and whitewash
with a window salvaged
from the old cow shed
after Eddie Fowler
burned it down
because he likes to
watch the flames.
The rain drips in where
the screws used to be
but we bodge them with
plasticine
and light a fire in the
hole
we scooped out with an
empty peach can.
In our minds this is a
palace in the making
but Dad wants his
potato patch back.
short forms 9th April 2016
quiet
the house silent
but for the dripping tap
and the purr of a car's engine.
Garage,
© Rachel Green 2016
spring leaves
burst forth from naked branches
sparrow song
© Rachel Green 2016
DK out for the day
gives us a chance to run around
in our underwear
Wait! It's a tad cold out
and is the child in?
© Rachel Green 2016
depression
kicking my butt
despite medication
bad dreams
shattering the space
between demons
should I up my meds?
© Rachel Green 2016
meal out. doggy bag of headaches.
© Rachel Green 2016
the house silent
but for the dripping tap
and the purr of a car's engine.
Garage,
© Rachel Green 2016
spring leaves
burst forth from naked branches
sparrow song
© Rachel Green 2016
DK out for the day
gives us a chance to run around
in our underwear
Wait! It's a tad cold out
and is the child in?
© Rachel Green 2016
depression
kicking my butt
despite medication
bad dreams
shattering the space
between demons
should I up my meds?
© Rachel Green 2016
meal out. doggy bag of headaches.
© Rachel Green 2016
Friday 8 April 2016
April Poems 2016/08
Xenophobic Statute
North Carolina
struck off my visiting
list
I don't want the hassle
of prejudiced white
folks
deciding who to refuse
service to.
You want ID to use the
ladie's?
Sure, here's my driving
licence,
my passport, my birth
certificate
what's that? You still
don't believe me
because I've got a deep
voice
and you want a DNA
test?
What if I decline, not
because I think
you'll find XY
chromosones
but because I don't
want my DNA
on your computer
records.
We both know there's no
security on your accounts
and I don't want to be
fitted up
for that bank job your
brother did last Friday.
short forms 8th April 2016
bad time
to make a wish
that your father was dead
when a demon is listening.
sirens
© Rachel Green 2016
raspberry stalks
extend soft new leaves
wild arum
© Rachel Green 2016
blank canvas
bought from charity shop
for a fiver
just the right size
for a removed bookcase
© Rachel Green 2016
dark space
filled with books
feels oppressive
I rearrange
throw out another hundred
of art and gardening
precious losses
© Rachel Green 2016
ruthless. her bookshelves diminish.
© Rachel Green 2016
to make a wish
that your father was dead
when a demon is listening.
sirens
© Rachel Green 2016
raspberry stalks
extend soft new leaves
wild arum
© Rachel Green 2016
blank canvas
bought from charity shop
for a fiver
just the right size
for a removed bookcase
© Rachel Green 2016
dark space
filled with books
feels oppressive
I rearrange
throw out another hundred
of art and gardening
precious losses
© Rachel Green 2016
ruthless. her bookshelves diminish.
© Rachel Green 2016
Thursday 7 April 2016
April Poems 2016 / 07
Urban
Fishes
I asked
for a day off,
away from
the bustle of urban life
just one
day
where I
didn't have to worry
about
money,
about
health
about the
eternal existentialist reality of living
or the
possibility that an afterlife,
if one
believed in it at all,
would be
full of rich white people passing gas
into the
waters of rebirth.
I didn't
expect to be taken literally
and I'd
like to go home now.
This
morgue drawer is no fun.
short forms 7th April 2016
Death wish.
An argument
with her single father
about his new, younger girlfriend.
Regrets.
© Rachel Green 2016
rainbows
through window prisms
miniature worlds
© Rachel Green 2016
morning run
taking Lu to the station
I drive
Only by the skin of my teeth
do I avoid splatting DK's bike
© Rachel Green 2016
painting
oil on canvas
recurring joy
I need somewhere
I can do this daily
therapy
I should never have stopped
© Rachel Green 2016
painting as therapy. Art into writing.
© Rachel Green 2016
An argument
with her single father
about his new, younger girlfriend.
Regrets.
© Rachel Green 2016
rainbows
through window prisms
miniature worlds
© Rachel Green 2016
morning run
taking Lu to the station
I drive
Only by the skin of my teeth
do I avoid splatting DK's bike
© Rachel Green 2016
painting
oil on canvas
recurring joy
I need somewhere
I can do this daily
therapy
I should never have stopped
© Rachel Green 2016
painting as therapy. Art into writing.
© Rachel Green 2016
Wednesday 6 April 2016
April Poems 2016/06
Wasp Totem 1989
An antique night stand
supports a square of
heavy glass
an artist's palette
smeared with oils and
dripping linseed
a hundred brushes in
jam and coffee jars
bristles to the
ceiling.
The canvas sags on its
heavy pine stretcher,
the weight of paint
exceeding tolerance.
It may need
restretching when it's dry.
The brush held loosely,
upright,
the tip of the thumb on
the ferrule
one-inch ox hair
stained Prussian blue
from the bed
of this laboured work.
A smear of Titanium
white
to highlight the hollow
of a Payne's Grey eye
socket,
while Alizarin feathers
allude to the violence
perpetrated on old bone
while an iridescent eye
stares out
pinning the viewer
as an etymological
specimen.
Outside the multi-paned
windows
night falls in
stop-motion.
City lights flash on
the flyover
a thousand people
rushing home to their families,
The reek of the chippy
on Piper's Row
and the cloud of stale
curry
an artist on Lea Road.
short forms 6th April 2016
yellow
notes on the desk
unfamiliar hand
with terms of endearment writ
for her
© Rachel Green 2016
grape hyacinth
a splash of garden blue
hungry tits
© Rachel Green 2016
what is his hand stuck to?
edits for a novella
out of context
I can supply several answers
based upon horror tales
© Rachel Green 2016
glass desk top
supplies unexpected bonus
sore arms
the edge of the glass
cuts across the muscles
as I type poetry
curious pain
© Rachel Green 2016
sunlight through the window. Unexpected nap.
© Rachel Green 2016
notes on the desk
unfamiliar hand
with terms of endearment writ
for her
© Rachel Green 2016
grape hyacinth
a splash of garden blue
hungry tits
© Rachel Green 2016
what is his hand stuck to?
edits for a novella
out of context
I can supply several answers
based upon horror tales
© Rachel Green 2016
glass desk top
supplies unexpected bonus
sore arms
the edge of the glass
cuts across the muscles
as I type poetry
curious pain
© Rachel Green 2016
sunlight through the window. Unexpected nap.
© Rachel Green 2016
Tuesday 5 April 2016
April Poems 2016/05
Forever is an Eternity
in Hell
We met at the sycamore
tree,
where the afternoon sun
painted freckles
across the scrubby
grass
and the summer heat was
bearable
as I sat with my back
against the trunk
listening to wood
pigeons high above
and the hum of a
distant tractor.
You carved my name in
the bark
with the pen-knife you
stole from your father
brass and wood,
smoothed by age
with a nick missing
from the cold steel blade
where he'd stabbed the
helmet of a Maltese guerilla.
I thought it was
touching, sweet,
a declaration of your
forever love,
to last until the end
of the world.
By summer's end you'd
moved on –
Lisa DiLuca wore black
lace bras
where mine were grey
from mixed washes
forever felt like a
taunt
whenever I passed the
spot on the way to school.
Wiser now, and when he
says 'forever' I don't believe him.
No-one can love
forever.
short forms 5th April 2016
thirteen
and all alone
she doesn't want boyfriends
or a new stepmother to love.
Comfort.
© Rachel Green 2016
morning sky
pink reflections in the gutter
dead pigeon
© Rachel Green 2016
horrendous dream
where I am a convict
in a prison
one of the inmates
has a shotgun
© Rachel Green 2016
polyamory
isn't for everyone
piggy in the middle
sometimes
it feels like a proper marriage
only more people hate you
but sometimes its fantastic
© Rachel Green 2016
magic potion. Her own tears, bottled.
© Rachel Green 2016
and all alone
she doesn't want boyfriends
or a new stepmother to love.
Comfort.
© Rachel Green 2016
morning sky
pink reflections in the gutter
dead pigeon
© Rachel Green 2016
horrendous dream
where I am a convict
in a prison
one of the inmates
has a shotgun
© Rachel Green 2016
polyamory
isn't for everyone
piggy in the middle
sometimes
it feels like a proper marriage
only more people hate you
but sometimes its fantastic
© Rachel Green 2016
magic potion. Her own tears, bottled.
© Rachel Green 2016
Monday 4 April 2016
April Poems 2016/04
Beacons
A gull catches the last
ray of afternoon sun
slipping between the
clouds
a sky-salmon darting
through rapids
to find his way home.
A hundred miles from
the nearest coast
it relies on scraps
from the municipal tip,
the council duck pond,
the school playground
where the children are
no longer allowed crisps
but suck at glowing
nicotine sticks
behind the netball
pitch.
Chips outside the
betting shop
where the Belisha
beacon winks, winks;
rain-wet egg mayonnaise
from the supermarket bins
and yesterday's chow
mein
thrown up in the gutter
with that last, bad pint.
Why is it always the
last pint that's bad?
Why not the first, when
Dad can shake his head
and still find his way
home?
short forms 4th March 2016
one hand
held to shoulder height
talk to the palm, sister,
'cause I don't wanna' hear 'bout your
problems
© Rachel Green 2016
red tulips
bursting from the earth
wild garlic
© Rachel Green 2016
new dog
has personal pets
despite the solution
I need to buy shampoo
GDAE tuning
© Rachel Green 2016
Sunday dinner
at a friend's house
vegetarian option
good to see them
though the bathroom is flooded
and the kids over-excited
excellent food
© Rachel Green 2016
a wall of books. Charity shop.
© Rachel Green 2016
held to shoulder height
talk to the palm, sister,
'cause I don't wanna' hear 'bout your
problems
© Rachel Green 2016
red tulips
bursting from the earth
wild garlic
© Rachel Green 2016
new dog
has personal pets
despite the solution
I need to buy shampoo
GDAE tuning
© Rachel Green 2016
Sunday dinner
at a friend's house
vegetarian option
good to see them
though the bathroom is flooded
and the kids over-excited
excellent food
© Rachel Green 2016
a wall of books. Charity shop.
© Rachel Green 2016
Sunday 3 April 2016
April Poems 2016/03
Switching Protocols
You asked me where,
I kept the love you
gave me
in my head or heart
or the little keepsake
box
the came from Whitley
Bay.
My pursed lips should
have given you a clue.
404
What will my family say
when you don't turn up
for the holiday we
booked together?
My mom really liked
you, you know,
the first girlfriend
she wanted me to keep.
She snapchatted our
faces together
to see what her
grandkids would look like.
I shook my head.
See this field where I
grow my cares?
503
You try to kiss me,
to rekindle the desire
that once had me
travelling a hundred miles
to spend an hour with
you.
You tried to stroke my
arm, touch my cheek
but I moved away.
400
401
403
April Poems 2016/02
Can We Just...
He said please
and thank you,
complimented her hair,
her dress,
the way she'd draped a
scarf over the table lamp
to soften the light and
set the mood;
the candle on the table
and the two freesias in
a champagne flute.
She smiled, blushed,
went into the kitchen
for wine and water
(she'd only ever dated
one guy
who'd managed the magic
trick),
returned with a green
leaf salad
with cubes of feta and
goat's cheese.
He ate with one hand,
making sandwiches from
leaf and cheese,
little green tacos
dipped in balsamic,
his fingers dusted with
Parmesan.
She thought it curious
and endearing;
imagined those fingers
deftly eating her.
Her second course,
chestnut soup
made fresh with nuts
she'd picked herself,
cooked and frozen when
the rosehips
bled into the hazel
hedge.
His spoon clanked
against his teeth,
scraped across the
enamel.
His breath as her
sucked
grated like the cheddar
in the main course.
Lasagne fork scraped
across Royal Dalton
ringing against the
brace
that held his missing
tooth
like a crane lowering a
headstone,
His mouth open as his
small talk
permeates the room like
typhoid from a sewer grate,
an orgy of tomatoes and
spinach
making his adam's apple
bob.
His smile as she pushes
away her plate,
stands, closes her
eyes;
fading into confusion
and she screams
Get out. Get Out.
Get out.
His stumble as he grabs
his coat, his keys,
his Can we just...
with a string of mucus
from the corner of his
mouth
as she shuts the door.
short forms April 3rd 2016
silence
above the town
even the wind goes quiet
a moment of stillness at her
life's end
© Rachel Green 2016
dark shadows
sweep across the grassland
crow's wings
© Rachel Green 2016
misting rain
the still, cold air
sunless sky
a motorbike rusting
on the roadside
© Rachel Green 2016
dreaming
my father's house
in ruins
the remains of the pergola
festooned with dead roses
lost to fire ants
a lawn of mud and faeces
© Rachel Green 2016
white desk. the last poetic hurrah.
© Rachel Green 2016
above the town
even the wind goes quiet
a moment of stillness at her
life's end
© Rachel Green 2016
dark shadows
sweep across the grassland
crow's wings
© Rachel Green 2016
misting rain
the still, cold air
sunless sky
a motorbike rusting
on the roadside
© Rachel Green 2016
dreaming
my father's house
in ruins
the remains of the pergola
festooned with dead roses
lost to fire ants
a lawn of mud and faeces
© Rachel Green 2016
white desk. the last poetic hurrah.
© Rachel Green 2016
Saturday 2 April 2016
short forms 2nd April 2016
standing
on the tower
of the Catholic church
debating whether to jump off
crying
© Rachel Green 2016
raindrops
hanging from a branch
huddled ladybird
© Rachel Green 2016
all fools
I start writing again
one poem
and a vignette
of Chloe
© Rachel Green 2016
Lu installs a game
on my recommendation
it crashes
Google is no help
we try every solution
to no avail
wasted money?
© Rachel Green 2016
anxiety dreams. canal-side dog fights.
© Rachel Green 2016
on the tower
of the Catholic church
debating whether to jump off
crying
© Rachel Green 2016
raindrops
hanging from a branch
huddled ladybird
© Rachel Green 2016
all fools
I start writing again
one poem
and a vignette
of Chloe
© Rachel Green 2016
Lu installs a game
on my recommendation
it crashes
Google is no help
we try every solution
to no avail
wasted money?
© Rachel Green 2016
anxiety dreams. canal-side dog fights.
© Rachel Green 2016
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