Saturday, 30 June 2018

30th June 2018

raspberries
appear like pimples on the canes
arm scratches


© Rachel Green 2018

chatting with Lu
troubles with bicycles
and the Orange Country


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 29 June 2018

29th June 2018

the moon lost
behind early morning haze
Manchester burning


© Rachel Green 2018

news report this morning
points out our excess carbon
goes into rivers and lakes
and therefore the land is changing.
Gee. Let me know, will you,
if Global Warming is still a thing
when your precious maples
shrivel up and die;
when the levies break and fall
under the rise of the sea.
Of course, we'll all be long dead by then
a collective suicide by neglect
but let's face it
the world will be better off
without us.


© Rachel Green 2018

Thursday, 28 June 2018

28th June 2018

willow bark
a line of ants farm aphids
discarded (fox)gloves


© Rachel Green 2018

full moon
occluding stars
in an empty sky
The pressure of your insistence
a knife slicing through my bowels
The moon replaced by traffic noise
and the thin, wailing song of hunger.
The putrid stench of decomposition
welcoming a new day.


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 27 June 2018

27th June 2018

low clouds
two children skip to school
flattened lavender


© Rachel Green 2018

overcast, chill winds
The lavender stalks blow over
standing ripples on the pond
where fish used to swim
Three houses over a dog howls
forlorn and alone
no-one answers.
Even my dog is silent,
indifferent to his suffering.
She's been past his house
doesn't care that he watches her
from a living room window
but if she feels the love
she'll pee on his lawn.


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 26 June 2018

26th June 2018

shaded rose arch
under the searing heat
the hazel tree withers


© Rachel Green 2018

under the brambles,
which snatch mercilessly
at my bare arms
an old, galvanised bucket;
still whole, still sound
after how many years?
Plastic pots and bowls
fragile with age and exposure
bagged up for the refuse site
but the bucket lives on
clanking year after year
worth its weight in steel
still


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 25 June 2018

25th June 2018

rose petals
scattered on the lawn
dried dog eggs


© Rachel Green 2018

Five a.m.
woken by WhatsApp
video call required.
I focus slowly
wondering just who calls
at such an hour.
I don't recognise the number
of the picture of the young man.
Call declined.
I worry he's someone
trapped in a burning building
or floating in a liferaft
and desperately needs help.
He tries again at 5:30
declined again.
When I rise, I check the logs.
"You are so beautiful"
"I love you"
Dude?
My grandson's older than you.
Number blocked.


© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 24 June 2018

24th June 2018

long stemmed lavender
a haven for the bees
less so the greenhouse


© Rachel Green 2018

paintings
stacking up on the rack
all needing titles.
There's one book I've used
to title my abstracts
since nineteen eighty-six
William Kotzwinkle's "Doctor Rat"
which had permanent residence in the studio.
Tine to bring him out again
the psychopathic doctor
experimenter of delights
in a modern world.


© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 23 June 2018

23rd June 2018

overcast
white rose petals
falling


© Rachel Green 2018

Melania
visits the internment camps
where children cry
for absent parents.
Her coat sums up the ideology
of the New White America
"I really don't care."
and no,
she's not being ironic.


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 22 June 2018

22nd June 2018

cloudless sky
in the green house
a panicked thrush


© Rachel Green 2018

do Zumba, she said,
it's fun, she said.
And it is.
I just wish
it wasn't in a room full of mirrors
so I can see all my wobbly bits
out of time and out of step
It makes me depressed as shit
under all this sweat.


© Rachel Green 2018


Thursday, 21 June 2018

21st June 2018

blue sky
adds a hammer and sickle
to Midsummer


© Rachel Green 2018

four hours
to repair the portico
over the back door.
My temper not improved
by the wind taking my perspex sheet
and smashing it in half.
Can I afford another thirty quid?
Can I fuck.
Duct tape and jointing to the rescue
and just as I finish
the wind takes all my hard work
and smashes it to bits.


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 20 June 2018

20th June 2018

outside work
wind gathers the clouds together
unripe apples


© Rachel Green 2018

electric shocks
freeze my hand in place
pain expelled as a long, low moan
until I shake myself loose
hours later,
the fingers tingle
and the bone aches
aches


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 19 June 2018

19th June 2018

pink tinged clouds
reflecting the edge of dawn
white roses


© Rachel Green 2018

wild strawberries
cover the ground beneath the walnut tree
tiny red berries no bigger than beads
but sweet as molasses from the tin.
the old corgi used to love them,
spending the day grazing
before I had a chance to gather.
Blackberries in August
dog walks spent snuffling
for those at knee-height;
plucked off gently
until the fur around her mouth
looked like she's been fighting
and won.

© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 18 June 2018

18th June 2018

honeybees
checking out the lavender
sleepless child


© Rachel Green 2018

whispers
in the liquid darkness
bring discontentment.
How many times must he take
the law of God to the streets?
Two boys holding hands
as they order women's drinks from the bar.
He takes another swallow of stout.
God's own drink,
according to the priest at St. John's,
and gods own weapon
a pocket knife with a crucifix handle.
the blood of the Unworthy
caressing the wounds of the Lord.
Another swallow.
Brewer's lace making patterns
on the iron legged table
while the Voice of God
speaks of Retribution
and the resurrection of the Pious.


© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 17 June 2018

17th June 2018

deadheading
red roses in a pathway arch
sparrows by the cat


© Rachel Green 2018

minor keys
a sparrow on the kitchen floor
a present from the cat.
Now she want's feeding
because her teeth aren't what they were
and she can't crunch bone.
Into the compost it goes,
ungrateful human that I am
but at least it will enrich the soil
and be returned to the earth
a cycle of life
interrupted


© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 16 June 2018

16th June 2018

overcast
threatening showers
elder blossom rain


© Rachel Green 2018

overcast. threatening showers
twenty four degrees
dry


mother's diaries
identical in size and shape
date from 1972
to her death in '78
the 'dairy daily diary'
each one purchased from the milkman
who delivered glass bottles daily
and came on Friday to settle up.
Nothing personal.
There are no thoughts recorded
nor memorabilia fastened in
with Sellotape long dry;
no mentions of birthdays,
special events
what made her happy
or sad.
Just the weather
and if there was frost
or a hailstorm in July.

Will my children think the same
if my writings survive me?
daily haiku,
daily poems.
My youngest doesn't remember their own childhood,
just misremembered anecdotes
like me feeding them lettuce
and them giving it to he dog.


 © Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 15 June 2018

15th June 2018

poppy seeds
blowing from paper houses
nacreous bubbles


© Rachel Green 2018

films of fresh colour
sweep over white canvas
oil over water
without the seventies stench
of a decomposing pig
floating down the canal
tangled with sticks and carpet weed.
We throw stones
watching them bounce off
distended trampoline skin
and pretend to push each other in
as if death is something to catch
completely unaware
we're already terminal
and young Davey,
a teenager at seven
will be dead by Christmas.


© Rachel Green 2018

Thursday, 14 June 2018

14th June 2018

high wind
send the birch tree sidewards
sparrow clinging on


© Rachel Green 2018

wild strawberries
sweeter then honey
The dog stumps past
looking for grass to chew on
his tail wagging
with ramdom thought or memory
and paws filthy with soil and dust
from the latest hole he's dug.
June drop sends tiny, hard apples
raining over dry lawns
while bramble flowers spread white wings
from the tangle of climbing roses
at the bottom of the garden


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 13 June 2018

13th June 2018

geraniums
turn to the task of setting seed
chance of showers


© Rachel Green 2018

Jeff Sessions
declares threat of death for deportees
"not our problem"
He seems pleased
that refusing asylum for Queers
will get them killed.
"It's a self-solving solution," he says.


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 12 June 2018

12th June 2018

nasturtiums
flashes of yellow among the borders
bin collection day


© Rachel Green 2018

silent
she slips through quiet streets
pounding the pavements
on a never ending quest.
Kids at home
never enough to eat
a society failing
moving from the countryside
to the inner city
just for a living.
Dumpster diving;
out-of-date food
at the back of the supermarket
a piece of carpet from a skip;
a broken lamp she can mend
maybe sell for a tenner
re-use, re purpose, resell.
Maybe a piece of Lego
on the gravel of a car park:
something to add to the box
her youngest can play with
while his friends have television.
In an alley a woman with her back to her
buys drugs from a boy she knew in school.
All cows are black in the dark
until they swap out the old sodium lights
for the bright new LEDs of denial.


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 11 June 2018

11th June 2018

hedge cutting
the less desirable result
sunburn


© Rachel Green 2018

her dreams and wishes
floating like dandelion seeds
through the evening sky


© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 10 June 2018

10th June 2018

heavy clouds
over the shriveling skirts
wild arum


© Rachel Green 2018

the lazy buzz of honeybees
intersecting the scent
of flourishing elderflower
and the last hurrah of hedge parsley
Nettles and brambles invade the path;
the dogs reluctant to pass
until the prickles are held back.
looking for the footpath
among a dozen crisscrossing trails
and, failing,
finding a road that leads in the right direction
where the stationmaster's voice
echoes under brickwork vaults
and homeward bound


© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 9 June 2018

9th June 2018

overcast air
frolicking amongst the geraniums
a blackbird and his wife


© Rachel Green 2018

She cries, silently,
wishing for the chance
of a do-over;
a life where her mum didn't die
where her father was kind;
where her sister
(now dead)
wasn't such a bitch.
Where their frugal living
was by choice
not necessity
and where her uncle
hadn't robbed his brother blind.
Most of all
she wishes the choices she had made
had been for herself
and not repressed from Catholic guilt.


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 8 June 2018

8th June 2018

overnight rain
at least the potted marigolds
don't need watering


© Rachel Green 2018

Impasto
earth tones with added blood
and a scattering of cremains
a circular delight
to tempt the eye
and remember a best friend.


© Rachel Green 201
8

Thursday, 7 June 2018

7th June 2018

gentle arches
yellow laburnum racemes
beautiful poison


© Rachel Green 2018

my garden
contains the loveliest of flowers
yellow laburnum
blue aconite
majestic foxglove
and at the bottom
delicate tendrils of solanaceae
with tiny, perfect flowers
Wild arum,
spotted toadstools
a fairy dancer's delight


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 6 June 2018

6th June 2018

French lavender
basking in sunshine
next door's cat


© Rachel Green 2018

patterns
abstracted thoughts
gathered on canvas
inconsequential butterflies
pinned to a node of misunderstanding
pareidolia in patches
burned sienna and Payne's grey
lead to muted explosions
Napels yellow; Cadmium green
the corrosion of a copper pipe
in Gran's outhouse
and the smell of paraffin
on the damp night air


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 5 June 2018

5th June 2018

low clouds
over the bins out for collection
rose petals


© Rachel Green 2018

sad
Scotus backs the hater
now Christians
can hate on gays with impunity.
Funny how they still cut their hair
and eat shrimp and lobster
and pork, of course.
and let's not forget
women are not even second class
but unclean chattel
living under sufferance
of glorious White Cis Men


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 4 June 2018

4th June 2018

red roses
in an arch over the lawn
petals


© Rachel Green 2018

Yellow tape
held down with lumps of flint
and sea-smooth driftwood
hammered into pebbled sand.
overhead spirals
of wailing herring gulls
wary of the blue lights on the quay
and the congregation of officials
and local reporters.
The body of a young man
clothed, one boot missing,
washed up with the morning tide
looks like he's sleeping;
one leg drawn up
arms outstretched
a damp salutation to the sun
somewhere behind those clouds.
I knew him, I think,
the son of a woman I used to see
on the Sunday dog walk.
Was his name Matthew?
I think about my stepson,
dead these ten years now,
and turn into the wind.


© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 3 June 2018

3rd June 2018

garden foxgloves
under the morning sun
peony petals


© Rachel Green 2018

umm

© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 2 June 2018

2nd June 2018

morning clouds
spreading their skirts
arum italicum


© Rachel Green 2018

sometimes
there are no poems
just disjointed thoughts
floating in the ether.

What of loyalty?
does it go both ways
or only one.
If you expect my loyalty
should I not expect the same?
Sometimes
just not being unpleasant
is enough.


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 1 June 2018

1st June 2018

wisteria bloom
a spire of delight
self seeded foxglove


© Rachel Green 2018

submissive and
eager to please
It's all an act, John,
just pay her already.

and add a tip


© Rachel Green 2018