growing on the doormat,
a wet rot of rain
inscribed fertility into coir,
leaves and sprouts and fungi,
and I wonder
if weather’s dexterity
can release us
from this unpleasant
NovPAD 22: Release
I was born on the east side
of the lake, mid-way up the hill.
Above the old power station
with the tall slim stacks. Sparks
flew out of those stacks at night.
Like hot rain. And sometimes it
glowed red like those pictures
of hell in my children’s bible.
That bible scared the hell
out of me; gave me nightmares.
And there was this weird shaped
church at the top of the hill.
It had a round roof, like an opal
that should be set into a ring.
It didn’t seem like a proper church
to me. Churches should look like
the one that Peter Pan and Wendy
flew over at night, not a round top
thing with no pointy bits sticking
upward. If there’s no pointy bit
pointing up, how do you know
which direction is heaven….
That’s what I always thought.
But when the moon was full,
that weird shaped church with its
round roof glowed like heaven.
Maybe heaven is east of the lake,
at the top of the hill,
above that old power station,
the one with those tall slim stacks.
NovPAD Day 20, a compass direction
Memories of my father “The Passing” at Who Is Selma Siri
Never Forget Those Early Lessons
The girl spells … K it u n
………..And now for extra credit: legerdemain
Le j mn
. . . . . . . . . . .A p l
She’s dying of embarrassment
It’s like chewing grit
Like bits of cow bone in a wiener. Ick.
More extra credit: Bodhisattva
B o ta
She reckons this is the sum of all things
created as a disguise of dying. Sends her
tongue feeling raw, fingers pulsing tight
on white chalk, that dusk before the faint,
where’s that void in which to fall. Get lost,
like parasites in a puppy. She gags at that
thought – skinny worms and puppy kisses,
and she gags again, and now the whole
classroom’s laughing. She hates spelling bees.
Written for dVerse,
NovPAD Day: 20 “I’ll Never …”
We Wordle 31: grit spirit dying
parasites void raw legerdemain
bodhisattva reflected pulsing dusk
A brief session on the sofa with Selma
Just an Excuse
I don’t need
affidavits, proceedings, complaints
settlements or wisdom,
nor fixed opinions,
whether spoken or fraught,
no sanctions, nor encouraging
rabble-rousing Wat Tyler tirades.
No short words, no lengthy lines,
no pocketed delights,
nor talismans, rose spectacles,
nor shivery lights.
I just need
an excuse for
stealing his heart!
NovPAD Day: 19, Excuses – a list poem
Butterflies, Buddleja and Lilacs
Of all the streets where I have lived,
This is by far the dimmest star,
This village nearer to small than priceless,
But the lilacs are sweeter nowhere else,
So I shall dream of lilacs and Buddleja,
Until the snow shall cease to fall.
NovPAD Day: 18, “Sweet”
A Twenty-Minute Drive Back to the Speed Camera
It flashed, I tell him, and we’re looping around and going back to see because he doesn’t think there’s a speed camera where I say there’s one. It’s a good 20-minutes back to the spot where I saw it flash. We pass the Old White House, which is now a curry house – used to be a pub with proper grub but now it’s a pseudo curry restaurant with Bollywood dancers on a Wednesday night. And then we drive by the ditch where my friend Alison planted the nose of her Land Rover, straight in it went, last winter, black ice it was. And then past the fields that are so soaked with rain that you can’t see the ground through the water … if that froze overnight it would be the biggest skating rink in Europe, I tell him. We’re still driving toward that spot where I claim there’s a new speed camera, you see, and neither of us are saying much. That happens when you’ve been married for nearly 40-years. We once drove all the way through Luxembourg without saying a word. True enough, Luxembourg is a miniscule country, and there’s not much to say about it, but still a miniscule conversation would’ve been okay. And then we pass the dog kennels where Molly always stays. We tell her it’s a doggie hotel so she doesn’t mind being left behind as we plod around wherever we’re going. Like Luxembourg. And then we’re suddenly on that road where the camera is. I’m looking fast and furious for it because now it’s rush hour and there’s traffic nose to tail everywhere. “Where is it,” his voice is a pitch or so off-key and too high for his own comfort. He’s stressed. There! I point, there it is, over there, halfway up the streetlamp. See it? Oh, god’s sake, woman, he says, that’s not a speed camera; it’s a traffic camera so the police can monitor the traffic flow. Oh, I say, not wanting to prolong this ridiculous conversation, but I know I’m right because since when does a traffic camera flash at you when you speed past it.
And then I suddenly realise that none of this rhymes nor does it do any poemie stuff. Well bullocks, is all I can say…. Bullocks.
Written for Margo’s Poem Tryouts: Perspective
Moot Opinions and Sour Slides
There’s a classless rise of fog,
an eternal wisdom rising up
as clouds. Somewhere in this
imperfection is some glaring
moot expression, and we’re
encouraged into discord
and scorn, into sour slides
of what we call The News.
NovPAD Day: 18, Sweet and Sour
A Confection of Colour
This is complete rubbish and doesn’t
deserve to be etched in print. Geeeze.
There’s a weakness in my fingers,
a disconnection caused with my brain,
this flow, that passing of high-toned
pastels across the table. I am a slow
confusion, a confection of colours
imparted on my tongue, such soft
and fluid drifting near to perfection,
and never will I ever be as sweet.
NovPAD Day 18, Sweet and Sour