20th April 2026

 

daughter's birthday

twenty-eight years passed since we met

when she was but twelve

© Rachel Green April 2026

Along the path

I toss bread onto the roof

of an abandoned building

where it lies among sedges

and sycamore seedlings

grasping at life from a centimetre of leaf mould.

Regulations

prevent me tossing it in the trash

and in the compost it becomes a foetid mess

at least here it can be taken

by birds too lazy to search for grubs

and squirrels at my daughter's bedtime,

and if left in piece

will allow microscopic fungal blooms

tiny proto-humanity

separated by a strand of DNA

and the process of evolution

© Rachel Green April 2026

19th April 2026

  

oil paint solutions

in a single, multi-colour pour

grey canvas

© Rachel Green April 2026

Red Letter Days

Phillie's Diner

open late-night until two

we drank hot chocolate after the poetry

where she read both pieces

about the desolation and desperation

of single motherhood

and though the night was clear

the café windows were streaked

condensation? 

Her tears were salt paths

walking the path of womanhood

through the tombs of ancestors.

© Rachel Green April 2026

18th April 2026

 

raindrops

on an oil-shrouded canvas

abstraction

© Rachel Green April 2026

Pesticidal

blanket-wrapped

as the fire hisses and crackles

into the April night

where the sinking sun

highlights the vapour trail

from a long-passed jet plane

and later

the distinctive shape of Ursa Major

ploughs the dark clouds of spring.

© Rachel Green April 2026

17th April 2026

 

kicked in the face

and punched in the mouth

great sparring session

© Rachel Green April 2026

Changing Clothes

my father had two cats

Katie, my mum's old Tuxedo

and Ginny, a grey moggie

a sister didn't want anymore,

and two or three dogs

all fed once a day;

all fed in the kitchen.

his cats ate slower than the dogs

and were fed on a high shelf

which was all well and good

until his friend Chris was drinking tea

on a chair beneath the shelf

and Ginny ate too speedily

and spray-vomited from on-high.

© Rachel Green April 2026

16th April 2026

 

Hairy Potter

Widget with a zig-zag scar

coffee spill

© Rachel Green April 2026

The Birth of Venus

Art is always considered a luxury;

an investment made by the rich

to acquire status symbols;

to boost the image of themselves in mirrors

but the common people find art

in the every day and I am nostalgic

for the book I rescued from the garage

mildewed and damp,

lithographs of Botticelli and Rembrandt

individually glued to letterpress pages

on paper heavier than cardboard

but my mom refused to have it in the house

because some of the paintings were rude.

© Rachel Green April 2026

15th April 2026

 

unexpected

I am publicly recognised

purple belt

© Rachel Green April 2026

Decluttering XIV

Memories of people once loved  

and have not seen in twenty years,  

can go from my life, my head,

and my house of hoarded life.

We all are dust, in the end,

and in a hundred years or more

no-one will care what I held in my hands

and said that I loved.

© Rachel Green April 2026

14th April 2026

 

catching a glance

at an overfull skip

moving on

© Rachel Green April 2026

To Wright

I catch an old friend on Insta

and apply for access to the pictures she posts.

It takes a day or two but I get the message

friend request accepted

and I click on her image,

look at her dog and her cat,

one or two of her but she's another person now

one I barely recognise

from the woman with whom I traded messages

once or twice an hour.

She's moved on.

Widowed, married, divorced, married

but still the same, sparkling eyes

and ready wit.

I'm tempted to message

but it's probably best I don't:

I am in her past, and she, mine

there is no need to stir the ashes of friendship

it's enough to know the world

is still graced with her presence.

© Rachel Green April 2026