Shoes and Ships and Ceiling Wax
Stippled ceiling artex
spoiled by amateur plastering
where the ceiling cracked over a fireplace
long removed but the chimney breast
still haunts a dust-enshrouded loft;
the corpse of a previous resident
weighing on the mind of the house.
She remembers her parent's house
where lofty ceilings
mocked her miniature frame;
where spiderwebs danced on draughts
from ill-fitting leaded windows,
inverted forests of dust and dead flies
so far from outstretched hands.
Double gazing shuts out the wind
and the sound of blackbirds
nestled in apple trees
and the dream of her father was just a dream
and the night bus to Benwell
plies too distant from Tyneside docks
to rescue her dead brother
lost in the cobwebs of dirt and misery,
and the glass bottled Tizer
lies broken on Whitley Bay pebbles.
*As a child, I'd never heard of sealing wax and thought the phrase something to do with the artex.
© Rachel Green 2016
Thank you for stopping by
Tuesday 31 May 2016
short forms 31st May 2016
one day
the house and land
will belong to just you
(assuming your father has no
more kids)
© Rachel Green 2016
fresh grass
through the seedlings
last year's raspberries
© Rachel Green 2016
heavy cold
even my tea
tastes of snot
too sick to garden
a list of jobs grows
© Rachel Green 2016
morning rush
a very ill DK
lu to the station
I stop in town for pain meds
then on to the refuse site
old office chair
back home for poetry
© Rachel Green 2016
the new painting looks solid black
© Rachel Green 2016
the house and land
will belong to just you
(assuming your father has no
more kids)
© Rachel Green 2016
fresh grass
through the seedlings
last year's raspberries
© Rachel Green 2016
heavy cold
even my tea
tastes of snot
too sick to garden
a list of jobs grows
© Rachel Green 2016
morning rush
a very ill DK
lu to the station
I stop in town for pain meds
then on to the refuse site
old office chair
back home for poetry
© Rachel Green 2016
the new painting looks solid black
© Rachel Green 2016
Monday 30 May 2016
short forms 30th May 2016
Coping.
Her psychosis
paints everything bleak
death and bullying all around.
Help me?
© Rachel Green 2016
first light
through the apple trees
dark crow
© Rachel Green 2016
lurgy
debilitate my weekend
prevents training
at least I feel better today
than at the weekend
© Rachel Green 2016
oil on canvas
with the new-ish
water based oils
building up layers
a minimalist landscape
of muliple hues
Tor line
© Rachel Green 2016
mirrors. None of them show inside.
© Rachel Green 2016
Her psychosis
paints everything bleak
death and bullying all around.
Help me?
© Rachel Green 2016
first light
through the apple trees
dark crow
© Rachel Green 2016
lurgy
debilitate my weekend
prevents training
at least I feel better today
than at the weekend
© Rachel Green 2016
oil on canvas
with the new-ish
water based oils
building up layers
a minimalist landscape
of muliple hues
Tor line
© Rachel Green 2016
mirrors. None of them show inside.
© Rachel Green 2016
Sunday 29 May 2016
short forms 29th May 2016
the ghost
begs for revenge
and despite misgivings
she promises to do her best.
verdict.
© Rachel Green 2016
adolescent worms
through the new grass
tendrils of convolvulus
© Rachel Green 2016
two dozen cornflowers
from a man on a local website
delivered for a pound
when they arrive
they're barely more than seedlings
© Rachel Green 2016
summer cold
leaves me miserable
swollen throat
I can barely function
for coughing and sniffing
my list of outdoor jobs
I spend the day indoors
© Rachel Green 2016
still pleased to see her. Dogs.
© Rachel Green 2016
begs for revenge
and despite misgivings
she promises to do her best.
verdict.
© Rachel Green 2016
adolescent worms
through the new grass
tendrils of convolvulus
© Rachel Green 2016
two dozen cornflowers
from a man on a local website
delivered for a pound
when they arrive
they're barely more than seedlings
© Rachel Green 2016
summer cold
leaves me miserable
swollen throat
I can barely function
for coughing and sniffing
my list of outdoor jobs
I spend the day indoors
© Rachel Green 2016
still pleased to see her. Dogs.
© Rachel Green 2016
Saturday 28 May 2016
short forms 28th May 2016
the ghost
of her mother
claims her suicide was
a deliberate overdose.
Murder.
© Rachel Green 2016
fresh grass
on the front border
neighbour's cat
© Rachel Green 2016
egads!
I picked up illness
sore throat and cough
seriously unhappy today
pass the tissues?
© Rachel Green 2016
evening walk
through cemetery grass
spotting fungi
the dogs romps through grass
comes back with a tick
attached to his nose
careful removal
© Rachel Green 2016
her greenhouse becomes an art studio
© Rachel Green 2016
of her mother
claims her suicide was
a deliberate overdose.
Murder.
© Rachel Green 2016
fresh grass
on the front border
neighbour's cat
© Rachel Green 2016
egads!
I picked up illness
sore throat and cough
seriously unhappy today
pass the tissues?
© Rachel Green 2016
evening walk
through cemetery grass
spotting fungi
the dogs romps through grass
comes back with a tick
attached to his nose
careful removal
© Rachel Green 2016
her greenhouse becomes an art studio
© Rachel Green 2016
Friday 27 May 2016
To Marry a Queen
To Marry a Queen
Chloe looked at the
proximity of her father's hand to her aunt Julia's. The placement was
so casual, so accidental, that the connection between his thumb and
her forefinger could only be deliberate. “Who touches someone's
hand and maintains the connection?” she asked later, holed up in
her bedroom with her best friend, Jessica, “other than a stalker,
obviously. It's got to be on purpose.” She leaned forward to snag
another packet of store-brand crisps. “And she didn't move her hand
away, either.”
“I think they're
having it off.” Jessica sucked more Bacardi and Coke through a
straw, her cheeks flushed from the amount of alcohol a fifteen year
old can put away when the bar has been left unattended. “It's
disgusting. They're in their forties at least.”
“He can't be. He
hasn't even paid for mum's funeral yet.”
“How do you know?”
“A man came round yesterday. You know the sort. Black suit and knuckledusters.”
Jessica nodded. “From
the funeral parlour?”
“Yeah.” Chloe
filled her mouth with crisps and chewed through them like a paper
shredder. She hunched her shoulders up and lowered her voice in an
impression of the man. “Tell your dad there's always a spare plot
in the cemetery.”
Poetry 2016/60
Last Waltz
He's awkward in the
ballroom
size twelve feet in
regimental boots
linen slacks against a
starched white shirt
creases you could stab
someone with.
His lips move as he
counts the steps
looking down, always
looking down;
one meaty hand on a
girl
her waist so small
a wasp would be
jealous.
He smells on Brylcreme
and cigarettes
his half of bitter
untouched
though the ashtray is
full of spent matches
while she smells of
perming solution
and the cheap perfume
she bought at Woolworth's
but the face powder
doesn't hide her freckles
and her teeth are
crooked yellow
but the kiss on the
cheek she gives him
before she boards the
4A bus to Benwell
will sustain him for
almost a year
and the death of his
platoon.
short forms 27th May 2016
her mum
a bit loopy
after her son's death
but her father's still paranoid.
Demons?
© Rachel Green 2016
morning mist
encouraging worm play
zealous blackbird
© Rachel Green 2016
late walk
the dogs are happy
joyous barking
a quick stop at the shop
we're out of milk again
© Rachel Green 2016
day trip
to glorious Buith Wells
eight hours in the car
a modern stone circle
built to commemorate the Eiseddfod
holds our interest
deep fried veggie burger
© Rachel Green 2016
four stones heavier. New diet required.
© Rachel Green 2016
a bit loopy
after her son's death
but her father's still paranoid.
Demons?
© Rachel Green 2016
morning mist
encouraging worm play
zealous blackbird
© Rachel Green 2016
late walk
the dogs are happy
joyous barking
a quick stop at the shop
we're out of milk again
© Rachel Green 2016
day trip
to glorious Buith Wells
eight hours in the car
a modern stone circle
built to commemorate the Eiseddfod
holds our interest
deep fried veggie burger
© Rachel Green 2016
four stones heavier. New diet required.
© Rachel Green 2016
Thursday 26 May 2016
short forms 26th May 2016
homework
she farms out art
to her new minion
studies her previous efforts.
Fails
© Rachel Green 2016
damp morning
raindrops on poppy petals
rosemary
© Rachel Green 2016
day trip
Lu hires a car
Wales trip
A change of scenery
for the empty head
© Rachel Green 2016
follow-up
pictures of my brain
from the CAT scan
spots of scar tissue
and dead areas
what did I forget?
I'll never remember
© Rachel Green 2016
she studies jiu-jitsu. Forgets everything.
© Rachel Green 2016
she farms out art
to her new minion
studies her previous efforts.
Fails
© Rachel Green 2016
damp morning
raindrops on poppy petals
rosemary
© Rachel Green 2016
day trip
Lu hires a car
Wales trip
A change of scenery
for the empty head
© Rachel Green 2016
follow-up
pictures of my brain
from the CAT scan
spots of scar tissue
and dead areas
what did I forget?
I'll never remember
© Rachel Green 2016
she studies jiu-jitsu. Forgets everything.
© Rachel Green 2016
Wednesday 25 May 2016
short forms 25th May 2016
her friend
in the shadows.
is it Toby or not?
Should she turn the other cheek or seek
revenge?
© Rachel Green 2016
lesser redpoll
sampling dry teasel heads
spring wind
© Rachel Green 2016
morning run
Lu to the station again
London day
Hospital appointment
followed by jiu-jitsu
© Rachel Green 2016
oil paint
in controlled flooding
across the canvas
takes an age to dry
but the effects are worth the effort
artist's delight
Peak Tor in multihue
© Rachel Green 2016
shades of regret. After-dinner arguments.
© Rachel Green 2016
in the shadows.
is it Toby or not?
Should she turn the other cheek or seek
revenge?
© Rachel Green 2016
lesser redpoll
sampling dry teasel heads
spring wind
© Rachel Green 2016
morning run
Lu to the station again
London day
Hospital appointment
followed by jiu-jitsu
© Rachel Green 2016
oil paint
in controlled flooding
across the canvas
takes an age to dry
but the effects are worth the effort
artist's delight
Peak Tor in multihue
© Rachel Green 2016
shades of regret. After-dinner arguments.
© Rachel Green 2016
Monday 23 May 2016
ahort forms 23rd May 2016
her mates
from her old school
help. Rosie and Gilda
are old-school tough bitches who take
no shit
© Rachel Green 2016
Welsh poppies
among the hedge parsley
spots of colour
© Rachel Green 2016
painting
oil on canvas
abstraction
for the first time in twenty years
I feel like an artist again
© Rachel Green 2016
the dog
obsessed with Lina's guinea pigs
tears at the hutch
she's worn a path
around the outdoor cage
a sea of mud
constant barking
© Rachel Green 2016
martial arts training versus money worries
© Rachel Green 2016
from her old school
help. Rosie and Gilda
are old-school tough bitches who take
no shit
© Rachel Green 2016
Welsh poppies
among the hedge parsley
spots of colour
© Rachel Green 2016
painting
oil on canvas
abstraction
for the first time in twenty years
I feel like an artist again
© Rachel Green 2016
the dog
obsessed with Lina's guinea pigs
tears at the hutch
she's worn a path
around the outdoor cage
a sea of mud
constant barking
© Rachel Green 2016
martial arts training versus money worries
© Rachel Green 2016
Sunday 22 May 2016
short forms 22nd May 2016
Hamlet
as a young girl
with some social problems
Yoric was always her best friend
(online)
© Rachel Green 2016
birdsong
through the leaf canopy
fingers of sun
© Rachel Green 2016
first oil painting
since I gave up my studio
completed
My greenhouse as studio
cramped but workable
© Rachel Green 2016
my sister replies
grateful I'm still alive
to write to her
she wants to be informed
of all my future illness
just in case
"I know we don't see each other often but I do care for you"
© Rachel Green 2016
scrabbling claws. Her dogs give chase.
© Rachel Green 2016
as a young girl
with some social problems
Yoric was always her best friend
(online)
© Rachel Green 2016
birdsong
through the leaf canopy
fingers of sun
© Rachel Green 2016
first oil painting
since I gave up my studio
completed
My greenhouse as studio
cramped but workable
© Rachel Green 2016
my sister replies
grateful I'm still alive
to write to her
she wants to be informed
of all my future illness
just in case
"I know we don't see each other often but I do care for you"
© Rachel Green 2016
scrabbling claws. Her dogs give chase.
© Rachel Green 2016
Saturday 21 May 2016
short forms 21st May 2016
a claim
to want to die
teenage melodrama
taken seriously by the
devil
© Rachel Green 2016
peony
the red tinge of new flowers
cemetery polyanthus
© Rachel Green 2016
clearing the house
the toy farm my father made
still wrapped in paper
old lead animal figures
their paint chipped away
© Rachel Green 2016
my father's loft
stepping from beam to beam
imagining futures
a thousand dead flies
on dry rot window sills
pupating butterflies
drifts of snow through gaps in the tiles
© Rachel Green 2016
the decision to get fit. Again.
© Rachel Green 2016
to want to die
teenage melodrama
taken seriously by the
devil
© Rachel Green 2016
peony
the red tinge of new flowers
cemetery polyanthus
© Rachel Green 2016
clearing the house
the toy farm my father made
still wrapped in paper
old lead animal figures
their paint chipped away
© Rachel Green 2016
my father's loft
stepping from beam to beam
imagining futures
a thousand dead flies
on dry rot window sills
pupating butterflies
drifts of snow through gaps in the tiles
© Rachel Green 2016
the decision to get fit. Again.
© Rachel Green 2016
Friday 20 May 2016
short forms 20th May 2016
sticking
on a premise
how to write a queer
sympathetic protagonist
Chloe
© Rachel Green 2016
blades of grass
on freshly-seeded ground
sparrows
© Rachel Green 2016
musty shirt
infects the others
spilled lube
I throw it out
paint rag
© Rachel Green 2016
the cat
interrupts writing
"Hungry"
I go to push her off
and she goes apeshit
clawed face
she attacks Trickster
"and your little dog, too"
© Rachel Green 2016
you can't be queer. You're fat.
© Rachel Green 2016
on a premise
how to write a queer
sympathetic protagonist
Chloe
© Rachel Green 2016
blades of grass
on freshly-seeded ground
sparrows
© Rachel Green 2016
musty shirt
infects the others
spilled lube
I throw it out
paint rag
© Rachel Green 2016
the cat
interrupts writing
"Hungry"
I go to push her off
and she goes apeshit
clawed face
she attacks Trickster
"and your little dog, too"
© Rachel Green 2016
you can't be queer. You're fat.
© Rachel Green 2016
Thursday 19 May 2016
short forms 19th May 2016
sightings
of lesser men
their visions of angels
never quite resonated in
her mind
© Rachel Green 2016
warm rain
damp night footpath
slug party
© Rachel Green 2016
sheltering
under leafy trees
night rain
around the streetlamp bulbs
haloes of green
© Rachel Green 2016
jiu-jitsu
first time in six months
trepidation
familiar faces
and old friends
revisited
signed up again
© Rachel Green 2016
tears of lost opportunities. New joy.
© Rachel Green 2016
of lesser men
their visions of angels
never quite resonated in
her mind
© Rachel Green 2016
warm rain
damp night footpath
slug party
© Rachel Green 2016
sheltering
under leafy trees
night rain
around the streetlamp bulbs
haloes of green
© Rachel Green 2016
jiu-jitsu
first time in six months
trepidation
familiar faces
and old friends
revisited
signed up again
© Rachel Green 2016
tears of lost opportunities. New joy.
© Rachel Green 2016
Wednesday 18 May 2016
A Poem-a-Day 2016/58
It doesn't matter you
didn't love me
I have the fire for
warmth,
the dog for
company.
Crackling wood becomes my conversation partner;
Crackling wood becomes my conversation partner;
old tales of foxes and
faeries,
deep within the green
canopy.
Is this beech or oak?
I'm too lazy to get up
and check.
I only know it's not
the distinctive bark
of birch or cherry,
or the reluctant flame
of Elder,
though the green flame
indicates copper
a nail in the embers
or the flare of boiling
blood
from the shirt you were
wearing
when you asked for a
divorce.
At least the pyre is
hot
and your bones burn
hotter.
Damage
Chloe pressed the phone
to her ear and raised her voice. “I can't hear you.” She
gesticulated wildly to Dean who was, as usual, immersed in a text
argument with his friend Billie over the new Star Wars film. She'd
tried to settle the argument two days previously by pointing out all
three of the latest films were almost shot-for-shot remakes of the
original three, just with different characters and robots for toy
marketing purposes.
Between the traffic and
his concentration, there was no room in his consciousness for his
sister's frantic signals and he walked on, oblivious to his
surroundings. He was probably still sulking she hadn't bought him a
KitKat in the supermarket.
“What?” She shouted
at the phone again choosing to ignore the caustic comment about her
size from the bloke in the blue denim shirt ( Honestly! Was this the
seventies?). “Thirty two what?”
She paused to turn the
volume up further, wishing she hadn't caught her earbuds on that
mannequin in Marks and Sparks and by the time she looked up again,
Dean was several yards ahead. “The thirty-two bus? What about it?
It goes to Insley, not Torstairs.”
She looked up at the
screech of brakes and the bang. She couldn't see Dean anywhere.
short forms 18th May 2016
boxes
from moving house
she feels surrounded
by the ghost of her dead mother
unrest
© Rachel Green 2016
morning rain
on the first clematis flowers
sheltering bee
© Rachel Green 2016
nightmares
of unremembered fears
soaked in sweat
I agreed to meet
an old instructor
© Rachel Green 2016
Jack
always in the kitchen
begging for food
he ignores dog food,
cat food, biscuits
Amos has a field day
He accepts some milk
© Rachel Green 2016
my 'to read' list now digital
© Rachel Green 2016
from moving house
she feels surrounded
by the ghost of her dead mother
unrest
© Rachel Green 2016
morning rain
on the first clematis flowers
sheltering bee
© Rachel Green 2016
nightmares
of unremembered fears
soaked in sweat
I agreed to meet
an old instructor
© Rachel Green 2016
Jack
always in the kitchen
begging for food
he ignores dog food,
cat food, biscuits
Amos has a field day
He accepts some milk
© Rachel Green 2016
my 'to read' list now digital
© Rachel Green 2016
Tuesday 17 May 2016
Service with a Smile
Hail beat against the
windows as Chloe knelt on the living room carpet in front of the
fire. They'd moved so late in the year that the house was still
filled with boxes three days before Christmas. She unwrapped a
figurine from its cocoon of tissue and stared at it, racking her
brain to recall the ugly leering imp with its hammer and pillowcase.
“Dad?”
“What?” His voice
was fain from the downstairs kitchen.
“When did we get the
ugly little imp tree decoration?”
“I don't know what
you mean, darling.”
“This.” She raised
the figure to the room camera. “Ow.”
“What's up?”
She sucked her thumb.
“I pricked myself on a nail.”
“Careful, now.” The
soft voice was not her fathers, but a tall, dark man in an expensive
suit. “You don't want to hurt yourself.”
“Who the feck are
you?”
“I'm a...” He
paused, scratching at his five o'clock shadow. “A sort of djinn.
Genie, I mean. What's your first wish?”
“That's it could be
Christmas every day.”
“Done.” He clicked
his fingers and smiled.
***
She unwrapped a
figurine from its cocoon of tissue
***
“Tetanus, I'm
afraid.” The nurse marked Chloe's records. “Persistent vegetative
state.”
short forms 17th May 2016
she tries
to wheedle out
of a binding contract
but every decision made
turns bad
© Rachel Green 2016
sparrow
looking for food
my seeded lawn
© Rachel Green 2016
delicate blooms
pristine canvas
flushed with colour
treating oil paint
like watercolour
© Rachel Green 2016
breakfast
two slices of brown toast
with marmite
I analyse the change
in my regular habit
of cold cereal
Ah! I craved the salt.
© Rachel Green 2016
guilty of overeating. psychiatric help required.
© Rachel Green 2016
to wheedle out
of a binding contract
but every decision made
turns bad
© Rachel Green 2016
sparrow
looking for food
my seeded lawn
© Rachel Green 2016
delicate blooms
pristine canvas
flushed with colour
treating oil paint
like watercolour
© Rachel Green 2016
breakfast
two slices of brown toast
with marmite
I analyse the change
in my regular habit
of cold cereal
Ah! I craved the salt.
© Rachel Green 2016
guilty of overeating. psychiatric help required.
© Rachel Green 2016
Monday 16 May 2016
short forms 16th May 2016
story
in her new house
unwrapping ornaments
the twisted figure of a girl
musty
© Rachel Green 2016
garden snail
circumnavigating the greenhouse
solitary bee
© Rachel Green 2016
offence
taken by an old friend
online
Not sure what I said
but I can't fault her
© Rachel Green 2016
garden work
started with just one job
two hours of time
another job took three
a third took two
exhaustion sets in
aching today
© Rachel Green 2016
entering a competition purely for fun
© Rachel Green 2016
in her new house
unwrapping ornaments
the twisted figure of a girl
musty
© Rachel Green 2016
garden snail
circumnavigating the greenhouse
solitary bee
© Rachel Green 2016
offence
taken by an old friend
online
Not sure what I said
but I can't fault her
© Rachel Green 2016
garden work
started with just one job
two hours of time
another job took three
a third took two
exhaustion sets in
aching today
© Rachel Green 2016
entering a competition purely for fun
© Rachel Green 2016
Sunday 15 May 2016
short forms 15th May 2016
revamp
for Chloe Good
still overweight and shy
but the demons in her conscious
are real
© Rachel Green 2016
fire sparks
in the darkening sky
waxing moon
© Rachel Green 2016
garden work
brings aching limbs
smoke-filled hair
hot shower and sleep
relieves the weary bones
© Rachel Green 2016
partners are away
and I had such plans today
garden woodwork
this morning's bright sun
replaced by heavy clouds
threatening storm
maybe I'll stay indoors
© Rachel Green 2016
obesity seems the order of life
© Rachel Green 2016
for Chloe Good
still overweight and shy
but the demons in her conscious
are real
© Rachel Green 2016
fire sparks
in the darkening sky
waxing moon
© Rachel Green 2016
garden work
brings aching limbs
smoke-filled hair
hot shower and sleep
relieves the weary bones
© Rachel Green 2016
partners are away
and I had such plans today
garden woodwork
this morning's bright sun
replaced by heavy clouds
threatening storm
maybe I'll stay indoors
© Rachel Green 2016
obesity seems the order of life
© Rachel Green 2016
Saturday 14 May 2016
short forms 14th May 2016
Jenny
in Birmingham
meets up with a student
studying architecture and
elopes
© Rachel Green 2016
telephone lines
split the sky into hexagons
crow's wings
© Rachel Green 2016
do I want
to tell my story?
probably not.
it's an old tale and
certainly uninspiring
© Rachel Green 2016
seeing art
always inspires
but for selfish reasons
I can't afford a Hodgkin
a Matisse or a Van Gough
so I paint my own work
I want to own everything
© Rachel Green 2016
Finally well enough to exercise. Fat.
© Rachel Green 2016
in Birmingham
meets up with a student
studying architecture and
elopes
© Rachel Green 2016
telephone lines
split the sky into hexagons
crow's wings
© Rachel Green 2016
do I want
to tell my story?
probably not.
it's an old tale and
certainly uninspiring
© Rachel Green 2016
seeing art
always inspires
but for selfish reasons
I can't afford a Hodgkin
a Matisse or a Van Gough
so I paint my own work
I want to own everything
© Rachel Green 2016
Finally well enough to exercise. Fat.
© Rachel Green 2016
Friday 13 May 2016
short forms 13th May 2016
re-write
now completed
hopefully the heroine
now obviously lesbian
and black
© Rachel Green 2016
yesterday's sun
replaced by high wind
new leaves stripped
© Rachel Green 2016
Lu's phone call
a long series of yes/no answers
to an unknown questioner
it's either spam PPI
or medical insurance
© Rachel Green 2016
parkour thief
escapes from police
jumping from bridge
unknown to him
the container that's been there years
has been removed
misplaced landing
© Rachel Green 2016
she agrees to try squash #unfit
© Rachel Green 2016
now completed
hopefully the heroine
now obviously lesbian
and black
© Rachel Green 2016
yesterday's sun
replaced by high wind
new leaves stripped
© Rachel Green 2016
Lu's phone call
a long series of yes/no answers
to an unknown questioner
it's either spam PPI
or medical insurance
© Rachel Green 2016
parkour thief
escapes from police
jumping from bridge
unknown to him
the container that's been there years
has been removed
misplaced landing
© Rachel Green 2016
she agrees to try squash #unfit
© Rachel Green 2016
Thursday 12 May 2016
short forms 12th May 2016
she tries
to outline why
she can't have a girlfriend..
Seventies Cornwall backwater
backlash
© Rachel Green 2016
spikes of grass
among shards of broken glass
a line of ants
© Rachel Green 2016
tagged
by several people
on Facebook
Why do they think
I'm desperate for sunglasses?
© Rachel Green 2016
edits
grow apace
rewinding a tale
The twist in character
of a wary protagonist
closet lesbian
Dark-skinned suffragette
© Rachel Green 2016
early rising, The dog's insistent wuffs
© Rachel Green 2016
to outline why
she can't have a girlfriend..
Seventies Cornwall backwater
backlash
© Rachel Green 2016
spikes of grass
among shards of broken glass
a line of ants
© Rachel Green 2016
tagged
by several people
on Facebook
Why do they think
I'm desperate for sunglasses?
© Rachel Green 2016
edits
grow apace
rewinding a tale
The twist in character
of a wary protagonist
closet lesbian
Dark-skinned suffragette
© Rachel Green 2016
early rising, The dog's insistent wuffs
© Rachel Green 2016
Wednesday 11 May 2016
short forms 11th May 2016
Bryn is
a ladies' man
and definitely not
a fan of the glam rock genre.
Closets.
© Rachel Green 2016
black slugs
creeping across the pavement
cherry petals
© Rachel Green 2016
summer heat
switches to cold rain
British spring
all those marigolds you planted
have died
© Rachel Green 2016
descriptive noun
rattles around my brain
my mouth on repeat
everything today
becomes a cockwomble
descriptive portmanteau
I meant to say twatwaddle
© Rachel Green 2016
how to describe an imagined desire
© Rachel Green 2016
a ladies' man
and definitely not
a fan of the glam rock genre.
Closets.
© Rachel Green 2016
black slugs
creeping across the pavement
cherry petals
© Rachel Green 2016
summer heat
switches to cold rain
British spring
all those marigolds you planted
have died
© Rachel Green 2016
descriptive noun
rattles around my brain
my mouth on repeat
everything today
becomes a cockwomble
descriptive portmanteau
I meant to say twatwaddle
© Rachel Green 2016
how to describe an imagined desire
© Rachel Green 2016
Tuesday 10 May 2016
short forms 10th May 2016
her comb
four-inch steel spikes
a seventies version
of Wolverine claws. Walking home
at night.
© Rachel Green 2016
sparrows
among the broken glass
rainbows
© Rachel Green 2016
waterfox
is not responding
broken washer
Somewhat irritating.
What a fucktwaddle
© Rachel Green 2016
editing
an anti-love story
where death comes
not as a whisper
but as a constant babble
of disjointed voices
her daughter?
© Rachel Green 2016
Hearing loss. A minute of Hope.
© Rachel Green 2016
four-inch steel spikes
a seventies version
of Wolverine claws. Walking home
at night.
© Rachel Green 2016
sparrows
among the broken glass
rainbows
© Rachel Green 2016
waterfox
is not responding
broken washer
Somewhat irritating.
What a fucktwaddle
© Rachel Green 2016
editing
an anti-love story
where death comes
not as a whisper
but as a constant babble
of disjointed voices
her daughter?
© Rachel Green 2016
Hearing loss. A minute of Hope.
© Rachel Green 2016
Monday 9 May 2016
short forms 8th May 2016
her luck
seems to be in
what are the odds of a
lesbian moving in upstairs?
No chance.
© Rachel Green 2016
snails
around the garden shed
a snarl of thrushes
© Rachel Green 2016
writing project
with another deadline
stop dicking around
I need to make the decision
and knuckle down to edits
© Rachel Green 2016
do I make him gay
or her, with Bernie just
'not her type'
It would make sense
for a schoolteacher
to pretend heterosexuality
this is the seventies, after all.
© Rachel Green 2016
pruning roses. Hands cut to ribbons
© Rachel Green 2016
seems to be in
what are the odds of a
lesbian moving in upstairs?
No chance.
© Rachel Green 2016
snails
around the garden shed
a snarl of thrushes
© Rachel Green 2016
writing project
with another deadline
stop dicking around
I need to make the decision
and knuckle down to edits
© Rachel Green 2016
do I make him gay
or her, with Bernie just
'not her type'
It would make sense
for a schoolteacher
to pretend heterosexuality
this is the seventies, after all.
© Rachel Green 2016
pruning roses. Hands cut to ribbons
© Rachel Green 2016
Sunday 8 May 2016
May stories 2016/08
Piccalilli Painless
I tried to kill myself.
Tried and failed, obviously, else I wouldn't be here to talk about it
but it wasn't through somebody having a feeling and checking up on
me, or a friend interrupting me when I was about to step off the
chair with a rope around my neck or a random stranger yanking me from
the edge of the platform as the 12:32 Portsmouth Express thunders
past. What saved me – though I'm not certain 'saved' is the
operative word here – was a red-horned demon with a cheese and
piccalilli sandwich.
His name was Kevin.
short forms 8th May 2016
argue
with a demon?
there's a twist of logic
that cannot fail to impress it.
Sign here.
© Rachel Green 2016
contrails
against the blue
sun painted gulls
© Rachel Green 2016
Belper woods
bedecked with yarn bombs
tree animals
I am amused by Noah's Ark:
A Tribute to Incest
© Rachel Green 2016
new dog
plays with his toy
an old teddy
in his head
he imagines me
shaken to pieces
and then eaten
© Rachel Green 2016
social afternoon. Evening alone. Wind down.
© Rachel Green 2016
with a demon?
there's a twist of logic
that cannot fail to impress it.
Sign here.
© Rachel Green 2016
contrails
against the blue
sun painted gulls
© Rachel Green 2016
Belper woods
bedecked with yarn bombs
tree animals
I am amused by Noah's Ark:
A Tribute to Incest
© Rachel Green 2016
new dog
plays with his toy
an old teddy
in his head
he imagines me
shaken to pieces
and then eaten
© Rachel Green 2016
social afternoon. Evening alone. Wind down.
© Rachel Green 2016
Saturday 7 May 2016
May Stories 2016/07
He just Appeared in the Closet, I Swear
“So what are you? Some kind of genie come to
offer me three wishes?”
“No. I'm quite offended by that, actually. Is it
because I'm black?”
“Black? No. Don't be stupid.”
“Ah! Racial stereotyping as well, now.”
“No. Stop it. I'm not doing anything like that.
Stop putting words in my mouth.”
“Why? It'd make a change from what you usually
put in your mouth.”
“Now who's stereotyping? How rude. I'm only
fifteen, you know. I could have you arrested for that.”
“For what? Suggesting you overeat? There are
three four-finger Kitkats in your coat pocket, a multipack of Cheesy
Bites in your rucksack and a cheese and sausage sandwich inside your
pencil case. Any sexual reference you inferred was entirely in your
own mind.”
“I could tell on you for verbal bullying.”
“Nothing but the truth, princess.”
“There, see? Calling me 'princess' is a form of
bullying. Clearly I'm as far removed from the social ideal of a
princess as it's possible to be and still be a human girl.”
“Quite the contrary. You're the direct
descendant of Maria Alexandrovna and technical heir to the Russian
throne. Not that I'd advise you trying to claim it, at least without
a significant political change in the nation.”
“I'm a real princess? Cool.”
“You wanted to be famous. You could be
remembered as the last princess of Russia to get her head cut off.”
“What?”
“It's a hundred years since your great-great
uncle Nicholas the Second was executed but the Bolsheviks bear a
grudge for a long time.”
short forms 7th May 2016
her mum
rotting away
a fulmination of
putrescence and underground life
begins
© Rachel Green 2016
plum blossom
over the fresh-mown grass
orange tip butterfly
© Rachel Green 2016
overcast
but still quite warm
Saturday
I'm tempted to throw caution to the wind
as well as the grass seed
© Rachel Green 2016
Peak Tor
bluebells and laughter
among the beech trees
ten minutes
of timer photographs
to get one right
people in love
© Rachel Green 2016
wiping her runny nose. Gushing blood.
© Rachel Green 2016
rotting away
a fulmination of
putrescence and underground life
begins
© Rachel Green 2016
plum blossom
over the fresh-mown grass
orange tip butterfly
© Rachel Green 2016
overcast
but still quite warm
Saturday
I'm tempted to throw caution to the wind
as well as the grass seed
© Rachel Green 2016
Peak Tor
bluebells and laughter
among the beech trees
ten minutes
of timer photographs
to get one right
people in love
© Rachel Green 2016
wiping her runny nose. Gushing blood.
© Rachel Green 2016
Friday 6 May 2016
short story (250 words)
Inside, Out
Caterpillar tracks wind
between the graves, leaving long ridges of churned mud in the winter
grass. It's twenty years since Tom dug a grave and he can't help
wishing he'd had one of those then.
He dug a crumpled pack
of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his denim jacket. He'd been
told off for wearing it in his youth. 'Disrespectful,' his boss had
said. How much more disrespectful was a mechanical digger tearing
through the cemetery? Jim Chantry, the driver, had been well trained
but he'd still knocked over a headstone or two and the fiasco with
the unmarked graves still cropped up in the local papers from time to
time. You wouldn't have had that trouble with a real gravedigger, not
when they remembered the burial plots with or without a marker stone.
Not that anyone read papers anymore.
“Got one of those for
me?” Jim wore his customary green council overalls.
“Sure.” Tom passed
him the pack and lit his own with a cheap disposable razor. “You
ready for this?”
“If I'm not now I never will be.” Jim borrowed the lighter and ducked away from the wind. “Where's the grave, then?”
“Over here.” Tom
led the way to his wife's grave. Everyone had witnessed the burial
but not a soul had thought to check the coffin. “Two point four
million in gold bullion.”
“And your wife?”
“Nah.” Ted pointed
to an equally old grave. “She's shacked up with Charlie Hendricks.”
May stories 2016/06
I'm glad my father
died.
Not because he was ill,
or blind, or incontinent, or lonely or just fed up with the paucity
of his life. He was all these things and only a year into retirement,
but the reason I'm glad he died was because it gave my sister her
life back, and gave me a chance to alter mine in a way he would never
have understood.
My sister spent the
last six years of his life almost as a nursemaid. She was barely
thirty, in a committed relationship and she couldn't move away
because she was all he had. Surrogate motherhood had already fallen
upon her too early when our mother died when I was fourteen. Our
father had been unable to cope and she had to take over anything I
couldn't; primarily the cleaning and the laundry, though I was able
to cook when I got home from school. When I moved away to go to art
school, she stayed local to look after him. She renovated the
derelict house his parents had owned so she could live next door and
when he became ill it was not unusual for her to go into his house,
clean and dress him, change his bedding and wash the floors before
setting off for her own job, then repeating the process on her
return. I did the best I could from a distance, driving the sixty-odd
miles home every weekend.
When he died, just two
days shy of her birthday, she was finally able to relax. She went
away for her first holiday in six years, got married, spent time with
her new husband. She finally got to live her own life.
With the money from the
eventual sale of the house, I changed my gender. I finally got to
live mine.
short forms 6th May 2016
nature
versus nurture
heterosexual
versus the desire of the
market
© Rachel Green 2016
garden snails
running from the chainsaw
old stump
© Rachel Green 2016
Amazon reviews
the briefcase gets four stars
instead of five
I like it just fine, but the cat
can't fit in her fat arse
© Rachel Green 2016
two hours
sawing at the tree stump
drilling holes in it
chopping with an axe
and hitting it
with a lump hammer.
Dean the Fish Man with his chainsaw
© Rachel Green 2016
out of spoons error -- accidental argument
© Rachel Green 2016
versus nurture
heterosexual
versus the desire of the
market
© Rachel Green 2016
garden snails
running from the chainsaw
old stump
© Rachel Green 2016
Amazon reviews
the briefcase gets four stars
instead of five
I like it just fine, but the cat
can't fit in her fat arse
© Rachel Green 2016
two hours
sawing at the tree stump
drilling holes in it
chopping with an axe
and hitting it
with a lump hammer.
Dean the Fish Man with his chainsaw
© Rachel Green 2016
out of spoons error -- accidental argument
© Rachel Green 2016
Thursday 5 May 2016
May Stories 2016/05
Class A1 Science.
Thursday.
Chloe was copying the
formula for vitamin E into her exercise book when she felt something
hit the back of her head. Mr Donal, the chemistry teacher, was still
explaining the process of metabolisation, which she could probably
explain in her sleep. She lifted one hand to the back of her head,
careful not to raise it too high lest Mr Donal think she was raising
her hand to ask a question. There was something in her hair. She
assumed it was a paper spitball, courtesy of Richard Adams in the
back row. He'd made her life a misery since last year, when she'd
returned to school after the summer break with breasts bigger than
anyone's.
The spitball didn't
budge. Not only that, but it was sticky as well. The more she tried
to dislodge it, the more it stuck to her hair. The giggles from the
back row increased in volume and she twisted her head to glare at
them. Richard Adams, of course, and the two boys on either side of
him, Christopher Trant and Adrian Wilkes. They were having hysterics.
Trant picked something up from Adams' desk and leaned forward. “Want
some chewing gum, Chloe? Oh, no. You've already got some, haven't
you?”
“Oh! You filthy
bugger.” With the knowledge it was chewing gum in her hair, Chloe's
heart sank. Chewing gum was the worst thing in the world to get out
of hair.
“Language, Chloe
Good.” Mr Donal's Irish lilt could turn to the crack of a Belfast
rifle in an instant. “Is there a problem?”
“No sir. Sorry, sir.”
Chloe dipped her head, letting her fringe fall over her face to hide
from the teacher's view. She wasn't going to be a tell tale as well.
She might as well top herself if she did that.
“Please, sir.”
Ellen Coulter, on the next bench, put her hand up. “Richard Adams
threw gum in her hair.”
“Is that true,
Adams?” Mr Donal stalked down the length of the chemistry lab with
the speed of a City fan with a bottle. His meaty hand closed over the
packet. “Is gum allowed in school?”
It was a rhetorical
question, but Adams answered it anyway. “No, sir.” He stared down
at the desk.
“As you're an expert
on stickiness you'll be washing out the glassware every night for a
fortnight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can sit down.”
He turned to Chloe, still glowering. “Now, Chloe. What's the best
way to remove gum from hair?”
“I don't know sir.”
She could see this wasn't the answer he expected. “Cut it out?”
“I doubt your parents
would be happy about that.” He looked around the class. “Anyone?”
Several hands went up
and he pointed to a girl in the front row. “Christine Bailey?”
“Olive oil, sir. Rub
it in and the gum will slide off.”
“Good. Anyone else?”
He pointed to a red haired lad. “Stevens?”
“Ice, sir. Freeze it
and crack it.”
“Excellent, but it
takes twenty minutes and it's only ten until break. We can go one
better than that. Can anyone think what it is?” He looked around
the room. “No-one? This is a chemistry lab. What do we have that's
cold?”
“Lisa McNally's
heart?” A boy on the second row.
“I don't think so,
Nesbit. I'm sure her heart is perfectly fine, just allergic to your
calloused one.” Another hand went up. The polish kid. “Schrebniak?”
“Liquid nitrogen,
sir.” The kid barely looked up from his textbook. Freeze the hair
then just snap the gum off.”
“Very good.” Chloe? To the front of the class, if you please.”
Cue one mortified
teenager.
short forms 5th May 2016
gay man
can't find love
hangs out with his sister
in his seventies style tank top.
Lonely
© Rachel Green 2016
scree garden
a woodlouse
climbs a mountain
© Rachel Green 2016
blood test
provides actual blood
not treacle
the MRI scan showed nothing--
not even a brain?
© Rachel Green 2016
Chloe
written from first person
gives new insight
her reactions
are raw and unprocessed
thoughts as words
Not sure if I'd write a whole novel that way
© Rachel Green 2016
Her eyes streaming. Just a cold?
© Rachel Green 2016
can't find love
hangs out with his sister
in his seventies style tank top.
Lonely
© Rachel Green 2016
scree garden
a woodlouse
climbs a mountain
© Rachel Green 2016
blood test
provides actual blood
not treacle
the MRI scan showed nothing--
not even a brain?
© Rachel Green 2016
Chloe
written from first person
gives new insight
her reactions
are raw and unprocessed
thoughts as words
Not sure if I'd write a whole novel that way
© Rachel Green 2016
Her eyes streaming. Just a cold?
© Rachel Green 2016
Wednesday 4 May 2016
May Stories 2016/04
Fighting Death
I first saw Death when
I was fifteen. I wasn't afraid.
It helped that it
looked, at least as far as semitransparent phantasmal effigies could
look, like a boy about my own age. Similar clothes as well. People
always relate tales of seeing ghosts in period costume like a ham
actor stuck in last year's amateur playhouse performance of Scrooge
but Jimmy wasn't. Apart from the whole
I-could-see-the-telly-through-him thing he looked like any other kid
who went to my school. Jeans half-way down his bum and showing his
knickers, trainers with the tongues sticking out, a shirt with a
band's name on. Nirvana, actually, which dates him to the noughts, I
suppose. Dead twenty years.
He was helping my mam
make some Yorkshire Puddings. I know Manchester's in Lancashire and
technically we should have had tea cakes with our gravy, but there's
no such thing as Lancashire puddings and if they were they'd probably
be inedible anyway. More so than Mam's usual efforts, anyway. Jimmy
was reaching over from behind her and flicking at the batter as she
poured it. It was going everywhere and Mam was getting annoyed.
“What so bleedin'
funny, then?” she said, staring at me with her eyebrows furrowed so
hard she looked like she was a rapper with a baseball cap. She didn't
consider that swearing. She reckoned everybody bled so it wasn't bad
to say. 'Course, everybody poos as well but she don't like me saying
'shit.'
“Sorry.” I tried to
stifle the giggles but Jimmy had realised I could see him and just
made funny faces at me. “There must be a reason it's going
everywhere.”
“It's my hands,
love.” She put the batter jug down and checked the oven, pulling
the shelf with the chicken out half way to tease open the tinfoil.
“The tremors are getting worse, I reckon.”
Now I felt mortified.
Mam's been having tremors for years but the doctor told her it was
nothing to worry about. She just has to take these pills every day. I
wanted to tell her about Jimmy but he put his finger in front of his
lips and I kept shtum. I wish I hadn't, now, but as Aunty Veska says,
hindsight is the best vision you'll never have.
She bent forward to
check on the chicken but some of the batter had gone on the floor and
before I could say anything she stepped in it. Her foot slid from
under her and down she went. It was like watching a video on You Tube
where someone falls and they film it in slow motion. There was
nothing I could do but shout “Mam!” as her head hit the edge of
the cooker, then the shelf with the roasting pan on it, flipping the
chicken out in a perfect arc across the kitchen. It hit the wall next
to the clock and fell, scattering oil everywhere. Mum dropped like a
stone to the floor.
I screamed, and Dad
came running but it was already too late for mum. I could tell she
was dead because her eyes were open and she had like a glaze over
them. Plus, nobody alive can bend their neck all the way around like
that.
Jimmy just sat on the
counter licking batter from his fingers.
short forms 4th May 2016
visit
with her mother
supervised by social
workers after a long school day.
Tired.
© Rachel Green 2016
rainbows
across my crowded desk
faded daffodils
© Rachel Green 2016
diverse garden
a slope of soil
awaiting grass
conifer alpine corners
make for easy mowing
© Rachel Green 2016
stacks of canvasses
waiting to dry
slow oils
I try a watercolour technique
with acrylic paints
mixed results
water-soluble oils?
© Rachel Green 2016
sitting outside the visiting room. anxiety
© Rachel Green 2016
*Not exactly a lightsabre but May the Fourth be with you
with her mother
supervised by social
workers after a long school day.
Tired.
© Rachel Green 2016
rainbows
across my crowded desk
faded daffodils
© Rachel Green 2016
diverse garden
a slope of soil
awaiting grass
conifer alpine corners
make for easy mowing
© Rachel Green 2016
stacks of canvasses
waiting to dry
slow oils
I try a watercolour technique
with acrylic paints
mixed results
water-soluble oils?
© Rachel Green 2016
sitting outside the visiting room. anxiety
© Rachel Green 2016
*Not exactly a lightsabre but May the Fourth be with you
Tuesday 3 May 2016
May Shorts 2016/03
Finder's Keepers
“Hey, look!” Angela
reached under the hedge and extracted a plastic bag with something
round and head-shaped inside.
Chloe thought about how
well her week was going. “It's probably a severed head.” She
thought about the television program she'd fallen asleep in front of
last night. “A zombie head. Still alive and desperate for brains.”
“It'll be shit out of
luck with Angie, then.” Fiona Cunningham laughed uproariously and
punched Chloe on her arm.
Angela scowled. “Knob
off, Cuntingham.”
Chloe rubbed her arm.
“You'll be witty one day, Fee. You're half way there already.”
“This is so cool.”
Angela sorted through the contents. “It must have belonged to a
special forces copper, look. There's a gas mask and a pair of
handcuffs.” She pulled them out and looked again. “And a collar
and lead.”
Fiona nudged Chloe and
winked. “Must be a Special Police dog handler. Is there anything
else in there?”
“A tear gas
cannister.” Angela squinted at the label. “Aqua glide.”
Chloe laid her hand on
her friend's arm. “I don't think that belonged to a copper, Ange.
That's lube.”
“Lube?”
“You know. For making
things slippery?” Fiona demonstrated a few pelvic thrusts.
The change in Angela's
expression from excited to horrified couldn't have been faked. She
thrust the bag at Chloe. “Take it away.”
“Could be useful.”
Fiona intercepted the bag. “There are a lot of people into this
sort of thing.”
“How would you know?”
She thrust an arm over
each of their shoulders, the plastic bag banging against Chloe's
jacket. “Let me tell you about it.”
short forms 3rd May 2016
legends
about the devil
describe the temptation
but never the raw animal
appeal
© Rachel Green 2016
tiny yellow eyes
on a blanket of green leaves
celandines
© Rachel Green 2016
morning
the dog adores me
cereal
just a paw on my leg
for milk in his bowl
© Rachel Green 2016
appointment required
for bloods to be taken
I log in online
first available
appears to be in June
seven weeks away
I'll have to phone up.
© Rachel Green 2016
she fudges three syllables into two
© Rachel Green 2016
about the devil
describe the temptation
but never the raw animal
appeal
© Rachel Green 2016
tiny yellow eyes
on a blanket of green leaves
celandines
© Rachel Green 2016
morning
the dog adores me
cereal
just a paw on my leg
for milk in his bowl
© Rachel Green 2016
appointment required
for bloods to be taken
I log in online
first available
appears to be in June
seven weeks away
I'll have to phone up.
© Rachel Green 2016
she fudges three syllables into two
© Rachel Green 2016
Monday 2 May 2016
short forms 2nd May 2016
she turns
remembering
her late father's warning
of travelling with a stranger.
Too late
© Rachel Green 2016
blocking the sun
a black and white fan
magpie's flight
© Rachel Green 2016
house visitors
one of them had a cold
now I have one
Sore throat keeps me awake
and now the snottiness arrives
© Rachel Green 2016
stories
are ten a penny
so they say
out of a thousand words
I forge the steel of a take
ten pound plating
I make less than that
© Rachel Green 2016
scars across her chest. Fractured heart.
© Rachel Green 2016
remembering
her late father's warning
of travelling with a stranger.
Too late
© Rachel Green 2016
blocking the sun
a black and white fan
magpie's flight
© Rachel Green 2016
house visitors
one of them had a cold
now I have one
Sore throat keeps me awake
and now the snottiness arrives
© Rachel Green 2016
stories
are ten a penny
so they say
out of a thousand words
I forge the steel of a take
ten pound plating
I make less than that
© Rachel Green 2016
scars across her chest. Fractured heart.
© Rachel Green 2016
May Shorts 2016/02
Musings
Bernie
flopped onto the bed and stared up at the crack in the ceiling. “What
made you choose Cornwall?”
“There
was a teaching position available.” Melanie copied her new friend,
surprised at the firmness of the mattress, although the metal springs
of the frame beneath squeaked. She tried to imagine having sex on
them and fought back a snort of laughter.
“What?”
“Nothing.
Just the noisy springs.”
“
They're in a right state. Better watch who you bring back at night.
You'll have Da listening at the door.”
“Gawd, I
hope not. That's be embarrassing.”
“Especially
when he charges you double rent for having a guest.”
“He
wouldn't, would he?” Mel stared at the crack above them. It was
reminiscent of the march of the Nile across the Egyptian plain, or
the oscilloscope display gain of a capacitor relay discharging.
“He
would. Thinks he's the Lord Mayor o' London, sometimes, the way he
makes up rules. He'd probably blame you for keeping him up, too.”
“I'd
have something to say about that.”
“You
ever been to Cornwall before? It's not exactly known for its
nightlife, you know. Not like where you come from.”
“I came
here on holiday once.” She rolled onto her stomach, her nose an
inch away from the pink roses of the nylon eiderdown. “Well, not
here, exactly. Penzance. We were doing the play at college and got an
all-expenses trip to soak in the feel of the coast. Some of us, me
included, hadn't even seen the sea before, never mind Cornwall. We
stayed in a scout hut with no lav and had to either risk stumbling
past the boy's tents in the night or pee in a pail.”
“I ain't
never travelled.” Bernie sat up, and adjusted the waistband of his
trousers. “Da took me to Newquay once, when I was little. All them
big aeroplanes going all over the world. I want to go all over the
world someday, not remain here like some sad bumpkin.”
“I'm
sure you will of you put your mind to it.”
“I
wouldn't be able to raise the money in a thousand years.”
“Maybe
you won't have to.” Mel turned her head to view the profile of her
new friend. Bernie had an uncharacteristic softness around the face,
and not even a trace of stubble. Elfin, her mam would have said. A
Peter Pan to her Tinkerbell.
Sunday 1 May 2016
May Shorts 2016/01
Straight Man
“Ah, go on.” Bryn
pushed the drink toward her. “I thought you people liked Coke.”
Mel scowled. “What do
you mean, 'you people?' Black? Would you prefer I sit on a different
table?” She pushed the glass away from her, into the neutral
territory of the middle of the table.
“God, no.” Bryn
held his hands up, fingers splayed. “I didn't mean that. I meant
--” He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “I meant
lesbians.”
“Right, because
that's so much better.” Bernie tut-tutted at him. “Manners, dear
brother.”
“It wasn't an
insult.” He took a long swallow of his own drink, wiping the foam
from his mouth with his forearm. “I was just trying to be
inclusive.”
“Honestly, I don't
drink any pop. Or beer, for that matter.” Mel forced a smile. “It's
too full of sugar. I prefer wine, thanks. Maybe a cider on a hot day
but that's about my limit.”
“Okay. Do you want me
to get you some wine? Red or white?”
“Honestly, I'm fine
with this one. I don't want to drink too much and give the wrong
impression.”
“I won't say no,
though, Bryn.” Bernie reached for the discarded Coke. “I'll have
a Blue Nun.”
Bryn snorted. “You'd
have anything in a skirt, you would.”
Bernie leaned toward
Mari and nudged her with an elbow. “Don't believe him. I wouldn't
at all. I draw the line at anyone over forty.”
“I should hope not.”
Mari sipped at her glass. “That's like, as old as my mom. I can't
imagine... doing it... with someone that old.”
“Why not?” Bryn
heaved himself to his feet and collected up the empty glasses in one
meaty hand. “Isn't that being as exclusive as you thought I was
being? I've seen plenty of younger women with older men.”
“That's different.”
“Why?”
“Old men are generally well off.” Mel grinned, dispelling the oppressive mood. “I'd abandon my principles for a rich older woman.”
“Widows.” Bernie
raised her half-glass of Coke into the air. “God bless them, every
one.”
short forms 1st May 2016
she's gay
but her protests
fall on his deaf ears
how can someone so beautiful
like girls?
© Rachel Green 2016
blackbird hen
on the mossy lawn
Beltane fire
© Rachel Green 2016
full house
a glut of children
in the front room
the dogs are all eww!
small humans with sticky hands
© Rachel Green 2016
apples
from the supermarket
in plastic bags
remember when everything
came in brown paper
and had scabs and cankers?
halcyon youth
© Rachel Green 2016
a certain generation. Her novel audience.
© Rachel Green 2016
but her protests
fall on his deaf ears
how can someone so beautiful
like girls?
© Rachel Green 2016
blackbird hen
on the mossy lawn
Beltane fire
© Rachel Green 2016
full house
a glut of children
in the front room
the dogs are all eww!
small humans with sticky hands
© Rachel Green 2016
apples
from the supermarket
in plastic bags
remember when everything
came in brown paper
and had scabs and cankers?
halcyon youth
© Rachel Green 2016
a certain generation. Her novel audience.
© Rachel Green 2016
April Poems 2016/30
Barbara
She lived on Randal
Avenue
a dead end without a
gennel
where there was no
reason to walk past
and be all casual like
Hey! Good to see you!
without looking like a
stalker
(which I totally was)
this was in the days
before internet;
before mobile phones
were a thing
and we went to
different schools
and besides,
my Catholic mother
wouldn't approve.
Her family were
Prossies.
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