Wednesday, 31 January 2018

31st January 2018

early sun
vanishing behind clouds
smoking grandma


© Rachel Green 2018

unwell
I regret the last portion
of vegetable fried noodles
and a side of happy shopper chips
stomach ache all night
and vivid dreams
about apocalyptic events
with demons climbing from the earth
and no angels after all
just men, urinating from balconies
onto the heads of children below


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 30 January 2018

30th January 2018

blue
recycling bins limned by sunlight
morning lorries


© Rachel Green 2018

plastic bags
dropped through the door
'please fill for charity'
at the rate of three, four a week.
Yes, I'm downsizing my possessions
but I can't do it that fast
and all you want
is cloth weight.
What about the books, the art,
the treasured teapot my aunt left in her will?
the Virgin Mary Lourdes water
and novelty Papal keyring?
Empty Marmite jars
and old devil glove puppets
Where will they be loved again.
Landfill


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 29 January 2018

29th January 2018

struggling children
under the downpour
primroses


© Rachel Green 2018

no doubt
the making of paintings
is an lifetime ideal
to afford canvas and paint
on a regular basis
would be my paradise
(to sell them a bonus)
For now, just one more
before I die or go blind;
one final blaze of colour
before oblivion


© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 28 January 2018

28th January 2018

brightening sky
a streak of blue rips through grey
crow's calling


© Rachel Green 2018

another discussion
about the ancient dog
and whether it's kinder
to let him carry on
or put him to sleep.
He's blind, deaf, can't stand up...
bumps into things and cries
and the cat
(almost as ancient as him)
beats him up daily
Our skeletal dog
and my partner who works away.
It seems churlish
to dash to the vets on a Sunday morning
and have him put down
when there are appointments the rest of the day
and too much to do otherwise.
We can't next week,
or the week after
Maybe the week after that
we can have my old dog humanely killed.


© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 27 January 2018

27th january 2018

more rain
spattering over the primroses
dog urine


© Rachel Green 2018

Another night in A&E
this time with acid in my eye
(self inflicted, by mistake)
just as I was recovering
from the bleach-in-eye incident.
Three lovely nurses
irrigating my eye
one shaking in horror
at the facial invasion
while the most experienced
holds open my lids
like a clockwork orange
anaesthetic, saline, dye
all pain
though the ph is seven


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 26 January 2018

26th January 2018

painting. acrylic on teabag. £30
snowdrops
a neighbour's garden
among the dog shit


© Rachel Green 2018

woken early
drilling, hammering.
the people next door getting new windows
while the pervading damp
settles around the house
a miasma
in sodium-vapour lights.
Outside, a child screams
unwilling to go to school
when the gates are still locked.
His daddy shouts at him.
He has to go to work
and mummy's fucking useless.
Dude. Drop him here.
He can watch telly
or play video games
with an old transwoman.
No.
Better to just shout at him
than risk humanity.


© Rachel Green 2018

Thursday, 25 January 2018

25th January 2018

sunbeams
limning paper thin birch bark
winter wind


© Rachel Green 2018

eye bogies
gumming closed my lids
fanciful dreams
the dog eats all the puppies
craps out raw meat and bones
while Peter Dinklage
lies trussed in sticky tape
in the boot of my car.
I clean dog shit off the grass
and wonder if all the Barbie dolls
need to be packed away.


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 24 January 2018

24th January 2018

tipping down
cold rain on my neck
muddy jiu-jitsu whites


© Rachel Green 2018

raspberry pis
on sale for less than fifty quid
(requires monitor and keyboard
and a basic knowledge of Kodi)
We though it would improve
our overall experience;
run our media centre
but all we could get it to do
was a game that looked lame.
I've seen better on calculators
in the nineteen eighties.
So, no thanks to the pi
I'll stick with my PC
and download Game of Thrones


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 23 January 2018

23rd January 2018

6.Punx. G Hughes 1986
weak sunlight
through the exhaust fog of morning
my eyes water.


© Rachel Green 2018

He took one of the dogs
the bed, the books
the plates and cutlery;
the pots and pans and the contents of the pantry
(and the fridge and freeze);
the wine from the cellar,
the toothpaste from the bathroom;
the carpet from the living room
(just laid last week)
and the oak table my father left me
(including the odd chair that didn't match
because my sister took 'the wrong one')
but he left a hard lump of cheese
and a noggin of dry bed
and the other dog and I,
we feasted like kings
before the open fire of my love
and his burning paintings.


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 22 January 2018

22nd January 2018

Sunday snow
removed by night tears
angry words


© Rachel Green 2018

Why do I feel
apologetic for not smoking
when someone asks for a light?
Sorry, mate, I don't smoke
seems a stupid thing
to feel guilty for
(though I did for many years).
Should I feel sorry for more?
I haven't bought condoms
since the early eighties
or records since the nineties
videos since the noughts
or DVDs since broadband streaming.

I haven't bought Christie novels
since I learned about racism,
pornography since exploitation
and rhododendrons
since the advent of the Oak Gall wasp

Apple can just fuck right off.


© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 21 January 2018

21st January 2018

double-blind eyes
the bust of a horse's head
a blank of snow


© Rachel Green 2018

morning tower
pots and bowls and pans
teeter, Jenga-like
in and above the sink;
clustered like Delhi plastics
across the beach of counter.
One plate, one cup
I recall was mine but the rest
betray the midnight feastings
of an unseen lodger.
I remember a child, once,
who lived with us.
A child of light and sunshine
picking dandelions in the park
under blue skies and vapour trails.
Now I see closed curtains
and morning dishes
and wonder where did I go
when I left for college?


© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 20 January 2018

20th January 2018

morning walk
through the constant drizzle
a lonely whistle


© Rachel Green 2018

holiday romance
while the wife is unaware
walking dogs
he sees another man
who happens to be staying nearby
She suspects
but cannot prove infidelity
until the condom incident
where they were never used before.
In hindsight
it was a gentlemanly act
merely to protect her
for his newly acquired discharge.
And the cat they never wanted.


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 19 January 2018

19th January 2018

patterns of ice
fracture yesterday's puddles
heavy woodmoke


© Rachel Green 2018

anxiety fears
bring forward the headache
of moving house
living in my grandmother's terrace
with the secret passage
to next-door's attic space
among the dust and cobwebs
and a thousand bluebottle carcasses;
an iridescent plane of wonder
before the rotting wooden frame
of a window overlooking Rowney Green
and the distant spires
on Newcastle's ship canal.


© Rachel Green 2018

Thursday, 18 January 2018

18th January 2018

sunny skies behind
the house, snowing in the front.
Thus, January


© Rachel Green 2018

old friend
waiting for me
in the places where we used to meet.
The witch's hat has long gone
from the Barnt Green playground
but I see your shadow
against the newly planted plaque
commemorating the death of childhood fancy.
What if I decline to come?
Will you linger here
or fades back into my past
like the last time I called?


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 17 January 2018

17th January 2018

scattered snowfall
the cat craps in the kitchen
you're welcome, human


© Rachel Green 2018

my father's room
untouched since his death
still smells of his hand cream
twenty years later.
His old television;
black and white CRT,
his radiogram
and box of albums -- anthems
of the second world war.
Tins of dry tobacco,
another of silver farthings,
and one of thrupenny pieces
he'd saved when they went out of circulation.
My mother's plaster virgin,
the water from Lourdes long evaporated,
the black faux-fur coat
she used to wear to church
and the plastic Christmas tree she decorated
next to his pile of identical blue shirts
and identical grey slacks.
The feather matress is damp from disuse
my mother's rose wallpaper,
peeling.


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 16 January 2018

16th January 2018

sunbeams
through the snow showers
muddy dogs


© Rachel Green 2018

stripping games
from the anonymous browser PC
to make space
and memory usage
Some massive epics
I never played
(too much time investment)
and others,
tiny favourites,
I played over and over
trying to recapture the excitement
of the first time I played.
Now the PC runs Tor netwirk
VPN, private IP.
I watch films and TV
instead of gaming
but I still don't write.


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 15 January 2018

15th January 2018

incessant rain
perhaps another cup of tea before dog walking
just resting my eyes


© Rachel Green 2018

quiet house
despite the washing machine
and the tumble drier
my love working away
leaves me silent and bereft.
Friday seems so far away
when it's only Monday morning
and the infection in my eys
weeps bitter tears
across the fever heat pf my cheek
Barkless dogs.

© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 14 January 2018

January 14th 2018

old dog
wading through the mud
winter rain


© Rachel Green 2018

sending stuff away
a bookcase offered free
turned down by the lady
so I re-listed it for a tenner
and sold it forthwith.
An old HP Mini
running windows seven
very slowly
I sell it off for thirty quid.
It all helps the overdraft.
What wonders lurk beneath the desk?
a colour screen baby monitor at least
maybe a pushchair, too.
We'll see.


© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 13 January 2018

13th January 2018

sparrow
calling from the bare branches.
morning damp


© Rachel Green 2018

bookcase
reduced to nothing
and removed.
boxes of old books
I'll never read again
given away
Others sold for pennies
to an online store
more still recycled
to charity shops.

A feeling of relief
for fewer possessions.


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 12 January 2018

12th January 2018


pre-dawn birdsong
carried on grey wind
new streetlights


© Rachel Green 2018

new for old
we drag a washing machine
from Lu's car to the kitchen
and leave it there for a while.
Later, I drag the old one out
(the kitchen floods because the water doesn't turn off)
and set it by the bins;
connect the new one
and clean the floor.
The scrap men take the old one
five minutes later
and the ancient dog
craps on the leather sofa.


© Rachel Green 2018

Thursday, 11 January 2018

11th January 2018

© Rachel Green 2018

lamp post technician
dressed like a Belisha beacon
among the dead leaves


© Rachel Green 2018

Kondo-ing
death cleaning;
Whatever I cal it, it's taken hold
of my spirit, my soul.
So many books I owned
going to landfill
and charity shops
but I still can't part
with exhibition displays
of treasured artists,
or those, so popular in the eighties,
now forgotten names
on a register
of out of print catalogues


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 10 January 2018

10th January 2018

blurred vision
raindrops falling from trees
unexpected bleach


© Rachel Green 2018

I don't agree
with the politics of jiu-jitsu;
the calling-out of transwomen
(transmen are fine, thanks,

we can't really tell)
or the theory
that women can't fight
(I can't, actually, but that's not the point)
or shouldn't fight
unless there's money to be made
and then it's all come and train!
just don't expect to be taught everything
or offered equality. We'll offer a pink belt
so be content
and shut up.
Men are talking, love.


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 9 January 2018

9th January 2018

north wind
bringing heavy cloud
washing day


© Rachel Green 2018

blistered skin
beginning to heal
sore eye

overnight crusting
damaged skin cells
sloughing cornea

most of the blurred vision
receding slowly
the clarity of sight

and hindsight


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 8 January 2018

8th January 2018

bleach hurts
hard frost
orange vapour trails in the sky
low sun


© Rachel Green 2018

a quick shopping trip
becomes nightmare fuel
when I buy mould cleaner
for the unventilated bathroom.
Some little shit
has loosened the top
it comes off when I pick it up,
the bottle crashing down
sending the contents flying
onto my face
into my eye
cue instant agony
though I finish the shopping
and drive home
while my eyeball blisters.


© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 7 January 2018

7th January 2018

beach day
muffled in scarves and hats
the sea too far out


© Rachel Green 2018

My mother's furs
always soft, comforting
worn once a week
to the little Catholic church
converted from a schoolroom.
We used to walk past St Lawrence's;
the magnificent Norman style
CofE with tower;
through the churchyard
full of tombs and iron fencing,
and the flat semicircles of cremains;
through the old iron lover's gate
which clanged ominously as we passed,
my tiny hand in hers
and the scent of winter on her breath.


© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 6 January 2018

6th January 2018

16oz Pink
cold, damp,
the mud squelching under our paws
low clouds


© Rachel Green 2018

no. I don't like boxing.
Don't you get that I'm old?
and slow?
It wasn't the uppercut
to my upper jaw so much,
as the dizziness
and twisted foot as I fell.
It still hurts today
so thanks for that.
No, thank you but no,
I won't be doing boxing
any more.


© Rachel Green 2018

boxing gloves
used once, for sale.
small bloodstain.


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 5 January 2018

5th January 2018

© Rachel Green 2018

blue tits
flirting in the hedgerow
polyanthus bloom


© Rachel Green 2018

embracing the whole concept
decluttering and death cleaning
and yet I buy more stuff:
yesterday was oil paint
today canvas arrives
next week I'll buy wood
for stretcher and frame
and make a new painting
that will have to be hung or stored
until after my death


© Rachel Green 2018

Thursday, 4 January 2018

4th January 2018

depleted shelves
beads of purity
hanging from threads of silver birch
cold surprise


© Rachel Green 2018

bookshelves
require assistance
as I remove and recycle.
Will I ever reads Keats again?
or John Donne?
And if I do, isn't it more likely
I'll google the poem I want,
rather than wade through an index?
Oscar Wilde replaced on Kindle
frees up another four inches of shelf
but what of art?
and the martial skills?
Do I need those signed first editions?


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 3 January 2018

3rd January 2018


full moon
clouds whisked away
howling gale


© Rachel Green 2018

recycling day
when all the blue bins
full of plastics and cans,
cardboard and bottles.
Storm Eleanor loves it,
now the streets are ankle deep
in old christmas paper
and used toilet rolls;
plastic bottles and cola cans;
discs or razor sharp tin lids.
I pick up after the dogs
and dispose of thoughtfully.


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 2 January 2018

2nd January 2018

Chinese lanterns in Chesterfield
damp day
someone's Christmas star
rotting on our lawn


© Rachel Green 2018

I have a dichotomy
of wanting to be free of possessions
and yet desirous
to keep everything.
If I could replace my books
with digital copies
I would be content
but what of art?
My paintings are part of me
my life of wonder
my struggle for peace
and acceptance of myself
the fear beyond acceptance.


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 1 January 2018

Ist January 2018

lone birch tree
a few leaves still cling to branches
lonely hearts
© Rachel Green 2018

resolutions
I make promises to myself
to be more pro-active
to become a better person
physically, at least.
go to the gym more often
write more
discard more clutter
eat less rubbish


© Rachel Green 2018