“Behold!”, I wrote, “come and see, The seven year old (obviously, me), Who, With complete disregard for her health, Absolutely no thought of herself, Jumped into a pond to save a drowning fox!”
“With Such Grace and majesty She prevented great tragedy, Showed such integrity, Give the girl a medal! Or the key to the city!”
The grown ups did reward me, For my wonderfully written story. My work of Fiction.
Still, being published in the local press, Is something to be proud of, I guess. But some day I hope, I can save a fox in real life.
Your love is like an arrow... laced with poison Is it love? or contempt? Disregard? Indifference?
Aflame, you bend, twist, burn and blow Ignite us with your wicked glow And soothe, your petals fall like kisses on my skin As coyly you begin again
Spring, a fragrant siren, sits atop stone Beside her, abundant, Summer’s warm throne Autumn’s rubies in mysterious fathoms blaze And Winter labours with icy-toothed babes, With pearly scales on their aquamarine tales.
Archaic, duty-bound Cruel seasons cycle torturously round, There is no pride, there is no fall, It is indifference, after all.
Rage simmers in the singed saucepans of the everyman, Like soup from a dented can, stirred by blistered hands. Do not boil as it may impair the flavour.
A freshly peeled newsreader delivers State sanctioned judgement in her derelict timbre. We’re the problem, eating Heinz by the nuclear glow of the TV, Perpetuator of myths. The prime minister kisses a grubby baby With the same lips that sigh Let the bodies pile high, Our hero.
If there’s time and energy, after we scrape the mould from the stale bread, If we can copper up enough for the bus, and nap idly with whirring heads against cold windowpanes, We will revolt.
I know all things, fact and folly My tongue etches secrets into rock faces And makes tall thin trees curl with disgust or awe. Salacious. I tell your secrets too, Whispered harshly into pink ears cupped by gloved hands Or kissed onto the necks of sweaty daydreamers Who sit barefoot by lakes on sticky days. They don’t care, they have secrets of their own, I tell those, too, to time and the mountains.
I know all things, hither and thither I tell how they bloom and then how they wither With neither tears nor glee, swift as the breeze For that is me.
leaves cling like amber earrings, dangling, but only just, from Seen-it-all-before oak trees, who sigh Once Tall and jolly with flowing blossom perms Now Melancholy, But handsome in their autumn gloom Confident their youth will return Smug, Invincible, but kind Like a snuggly grandad with endless stories.
A Paper coffee cup, retired, upturned Seafoam mermaid nymph ebbing away Lazy and beautiful with soil on her face Bronzed by clay in the high saturation daylight. Golden hour, A pair of dungarees takes a Carefully posed photograph. Hashtag nature.
Latte and laptops in the sweaty, steamy tea shops Which puff cosy o’s into the Pearl grey sky An assault of angry acorn shells Woodland shrapnel peppering rain macs Crusty nosed children shriek Thrilled As winter frost peeks around golden corners, Hiding from the cold wet paws Of ragged dogs with bacon thin tongues Who will beg for kindness In the form of sausages At the cafe tables.
