31st July 2019

raindrops
glistening on the snap dragons
cautious honeybee

© Rachel Green 2019

the bookshop
in the Old Mill at Alvechurch
new and second-hand
curated by a young bibliophile
with a fondness for fantasy.
I paid eleven pounds
for a slim volume of Tolkein,
gilded leather cover,
the pages so thin
they were transparent.
I gave it to a college friend
who never read it
and used the pages for spliffs.

 © Rachel Green 2019

30th July 2019

hot sun
refuse bins arrayed streetly
overgrown lawn

© Rachel Green 2019

my profile
edited for vanity
(and medical reasons)
No longer the hooked nose
bequathed by my father
now shortened, lifted,
the badly healed break
(momentos of jiu-jitsu)
cleaned, straightened,
the dorsal ridge
chipped off with hammer and chisel
and the cartilege replaced
with ground up mash
of my own extracted bone.
Still ugly as shit
but my nose is pretty.

© Rachel Green 2019

29th July 2019

The Glorious Om Riff

summer downpour
on the Glorious Roadside Om
raining blessings

© Rachel Green 2019

let me find my way
through the roots and stems
of those who wist to stop me.
All I need
is an modicum of space
a little sunshine to bloom
and then,
though I be cut down my peers
and those who stive to opress me
at least I will have shone brighly
and left seeds of encouragement
for those who follow after.

© Rachel Green 2019

28th July 2019

Anyone know what this is?

rainy day
dropping the heat a notch
family

© Rachel Green 2019

don't tell me I'm dying.
Just slip some arsenic
into my evening tea;
leave me a bottle of codeine in easy reach;
arrange that trip to Finland
to see the glaciers;
visit the little Swiss cottages;
or take me to America
where the contemptuous Right
will kill me for being gay
or because I'm Trans;
an English citizen;
a natural redhead;
or, if they don't know my history,
a woman.

© Rachel Green 2019

27th July 2019

clouds at last

Salvage Restaurant, Clowne

record breaking temperatures
can fuck right off

© Rachel Green 2019

Hollow oak
a hole at its base
where we scramble inside,
climb into the eaves
among the lasves and the wind;
the buzzing of hoverflies
and the serenity of absence.
There's no homework, here,
no dad's moaning or
worrying mothers;
just the wind and the peace.

When I went back
I couldn'd believe how small the hole was
I couldn't even look inside.
How small i was
when I needed the solace of that oak.

© Rachel Green 2019

26th July 2019

self portrait
with Himalayan Balsam
Hottest day

© Rachel Green 2019

why are they pronounced
'ave-a-car-doe'
and not 'ave-oh-ka-do'?
It seems odd to me
but similar observations
lead people to avoid me.
Enquiring minds
can lead to isolation
especially in my youth
when I kept a decomposing sheep
in the communal bathtub.

 © Rachel Green 2019

25th July 2019

cornflowers
flowering a second time
bright crocosmia

© Rachel Green 2019

Bench Memorial Plaque Challenge

Maureen Price was well loved here
and all who knew her held her dear
Working all the hours of dark
behind the cafe in the park
The apple of a generation
fifty quid for penetration
thirty for a "Lipstick Lolly"
twenty for a handy jolly
and for the shy of sixteen years
a quicky for a case of beers.
This bench is funded by the wives
of Maureen's Johns, for peaceful lives.

© Rachel Green 2019

24th July 2019

evening walk
the dipping sun
over the cemetery

© Rachel Green 2019

When Mum died
we took long walks
on the canal towpath
as the sun went down
and the bats flitted above the water.
Beatles songs
sung with a croaky voice
the alternative to crying;
feeding polo mints to the horses in the field
relishing the musky scent
reminiscent of home

 © Rachel Green 2019

23rd July 2019

early sun
as we leave the house
the scent of lavender

 © Rachel Green 2019

I don't see the wobble
as I wander the streets
the idea of myself
it still nineteen years old
stick thin, pale
fit as a Butcher's
but that was almost forty years ago
and my skin has sagged,
my hair gone grey
and my waist
resembles the Michilin man
whish probably tells my age:
I'm old enough to remember
when the clothes label
was worn on the inside.

© Rachel Green 2019

22nd July 2019

clouds
spiralling easwards
squalling gulls

© Rachel Green 2019

across the farmland
where the M42 would go

(compulsory purchase)
A bonfire
higher than the old barn
wider than the tumble-down cowshed
where we made a den
until the policeman saw us off,
sheep, lambs, two cows
reduced to ash and bone
flesh on the edges of the fire
no value in marketing them
cheaper to kill and burn
than transport to market.
The smell of a Sunday roast
combined with the acrid tang
when my jumper fell in the fire.

The dog pulls out a meaty skull
ecstatic.

© Rachel Green 2019

21st July 2019

overcast
in the cemetery
an abundance of hazel nuts

© Rachel Green 2019

summer afternoon
the long walk home from school
climbing the sandy banks
adjacent to the pavement
picking clover flowers for mum
ants running through our fingers
dandelion heads
leaking sticky milk over our hands
and the taunt
"you'll wet the bed tonight"
somehow we knew it was a diuretic
but not how it worked.
daring each other to touch
the red hot pokers
in an old lady's garden
then resting in the shade
of the massive oak on Tanner's Lane.
racing past the Dasher's house
lest Pete the Bully threaten us
with bodily harm
up the hill to Mrs Morris' farm
where the chickens cooed and clucked
and finally home
old iron gates painted green
an the smile of a dog to greet us.

© Rachel Green 2019

20th July 2019

morning rain
making everything cool again
Ash's new kitten

© Rachel Green 2019


How easy
to walk away?
Leave everything behind
and staart afresh
as if a house fire
had taken my family
my friends,
all the possessions
I thought I needed.
Perhaps I should just go
leave behing my dogs
and my name
start afresh with a laptop and a mattress
in some distant council hovel
where no-one knows my past.

 © Rachel Green 2019

19th July 2019

dappled wood
the scent of orange blossom
through the sycamores

© Rachel Green 2019

I don't read enough.
All those poetry books
stored in a box
don't offer inspiration
if I can't read them.
I'm sure I used to be better than this
or maybe not.
I kid myself
about being a writer.

© Rachel Green 2019

18th July 2019

morning heat
cooled by cloud cover
overnight rain

© Rachel Green 2019

where the fuck
did I put my bicycle pump?
A flat tyre
demands attention
but I've no idea
where the bugger is.
I just bought it.
It arrived in the post
and I opened it here.
I'm going senile.
Bugger.

© Rachel Green 2019

17th July 2019

gibbous buck moon
dancing through clouds
classical painting

© Rachel Green 2019

a moment
of kitchen travels
a cup of tea;
moving the laundry;
a bowl of cereal;
I expect the cat to follow,
asking for more food.
Alas, the cat is no more
eighteen years of furry love
ended.

© Rachel Green 2019

16th July 2019

Almost full
the Buck moon
linguistic dreaming

© Rachel Green 2019

 a desire
to begin writing
conflicts with ability
and a lack of talent.
What makes me noteworthy?
A few loyal friends
and a semi-original idea?
An engaging anti-hero?
Nope.
Nothing, really.

© Rachel Green 2019

15th July 2019

moon: waxing, gibbous
kd lang in Manchester
summer heat

© Rachel Green 2019

movie review:
slow paced, slow burning
but worth it for the horror.
No shock twists here;
you foresee everything
except the off-screen deaths.
The legacy of 'The Wicker Man'
(the original version)
in good, 'Midsommer' hands.

© Rachel Green 2019

14th July 2019

unshine*
and a tad chilly
blooming lavender

© Rachel Green 2019

squishy shagpile
between my toes
is this luxury?
If so, I'll have an easy retirement:
a shed, a bed
a network connection
and a shagpile carpet
for my dog to sleep on.

© Rachel Green 2019

*a word coined by Lu meaning "you can't see the sun but there's a definite brightness"

13th July 2019

overcast
looks like rain again
sparrow frenzy

 © Rachel Green 2019

Already
neighbour cats stalk the garden
The dogs ignore them
(both have been victims of feline spikes)
and with out cat now buried
(under the apple tree)
the garden is fair game
much to the dismay
of the sparrows.

© Rachel Green 2019

12th July 2019

grey morning
yesterday's thunderstorm
cooling the air

© Rachel Green 2019

her last meal
as she staggers from the kitchen
back to the study
(all she's capable of, now)
A very old cat
full of loyalty
but no life to live.
Goodbye, Nute.

© Rachel Green 2019

11th July 2019

warn sunshine
through the breeze-blown birch
sparrow song

© Rachel Green 2019

waking up
with a song in my head.
Today it's "Carry them Ashore"
with counterpoint
of Genesis' "Nursery Crimes."
What does this say about me?
Last week it was "Jellyfish"
by Punishment of Luxury,
Am I reliving my past
in preparation of death?
Or is senility settling in?
my deterioration
is inevitable
"let me make you a deal..."

© Rachel Green 2019

10th July 2019

tattered cornflowers
waiting for their seeds to ripen
wind broken poppies

© Rachel Green 2019

back to the gym
after almost ten weeks off
falling off a cliff
needed extra healing time
followed by surgery
on a sensitive nose.
Still sore but getting better
I dare not take classes
or martial arts yet.

© Rachel Green 2019

9th July 2019

night street
cool rain washing away
the daily dust

© Rachel Green 2019

Ashes
in the dark
within the missing.
Link.
Lost.
London.
Legion.
I like me
(emotional abuse.)
Assorted bookings.

© Rachel Green 2019

8th July 2019

wispy clouds
occluding the sun
cornflower seeds

© Rachel Green 2019

how was I to know
he'd "jusrt put it there for now"
among the plastic bottles
and empty drinks cans
ready for the recycling.
I knew it was out of date
I bought it over twenty years ago
hoping to convince someone
of the existence of demons
and only later realised
there was no 'c'
in the name 'Antiseptic'.

© Rachel Green 2019

7th July 2019

young sparrows
celebrating the sunshine
leucanthemum flowers

© Rachel Green 2019

fruit bowl
rotting gently
in the summer warmth.
The beauty of decay
bringing joy

© Rachel Green 2019

6th July 2019

bright asters
glorying in the rain
sparrows

© Rachel Green 2019

sad
for no reason
just one of those days
where I pretend
to be cheerful

© Rachel Green 2019

5th July 2019

cloudy and cooler
a bowl of fresh raspberries
on the patio

© Rachel Green 2019

old magazines
tied up in bundles
with orange baling twine.
Good Housekeeping
Women's Weekly
Amateur Gardening;
a litany of the past
her parent's desires
for a better now
sent to charity
and sold at auction.
She should have kept them,
sold them on eBay
and paid for her therapy.

 © Rachel Green 2019

4th July 2019

American flags
decorating the library,
All made in Taiwan.

© Rachel Green 2019

manipulation
of a four-year plot
where the dead father
becomes the dead brother
and the house on Mill Lane
remains haunted
by the protagonist's past.
Just touching
the things she remembers
makes her want to defecate,
An ancient toy farm her father made
the animals all made of pewter;
a doll's house wrapped in tissue
where the tin furniture
has bowed in corrosion
and her Action Man soldiers
look like Viet-Cong refugees.

© Rachel Green 2019

3rd July 2019

another scorcher
at least the dog is cooler
after his grooming

© Rachel Green 2019

strange girl
I really want to like her
I just can't.
Her method of speech
a little too calculated
her observations
a little too snarky
her flirtations
a little too insincere.
But no.
I wouldn't kick her out of bed.

© Rachel Green 2019

2nd July 2019

bin collection day
filched by a coveteous neighbour
my old PC case

© Rachel Green 2019

slight delay
in the journey home.
DK plays Pokemon and Harry Potter
on his mobile.
I make a note
of my observations
about publis toilets,
and why we feel commited to our choice of stall
even after the discovery
that the person before us
didn't flush.

 © Rachel Green 2019

1st July 2019

Unshine
the heat of the weekend passes
demanding sparrows

© Rachel Green 2019

we got a colour TV
after mum died,
compensation, I suppose,
though we'd rather have had her.
I  always thought seventies films
to be in black and white
only recently disabused of the notion
when rewatching half-remembered titles.
Odd that I remember the horror
wrapped up in 'O Lucky Man'
and not the long segments
of soft porn debarcles.
Those acres of flesh
deleted from memory.

© Rachel Green 2019