Made in Heaven

Continuing a long tradition of bouncy little list poems...

Brown bread and boiled eggs,

White bread and ham,

Baked potato, grated cheese

Clotted cream and Jam

Sardines on wholemeal toast

Christmas cake and cheese

Cauliflower and white sauce

Sweetcorn, butter, peas.

Mushrooms with garlic

Parsley sauce and fish,

Cheap as chips and ketchup

Butter in a dish.

Jersey Royals & baked beans

Sausages & mustard

Mince pies, brandy butter

Apple pie & custard.

Sunday roast & gravy

Dumplings in a stew

Pancakes & ice cream

Me with you.

That & This

We have gently captured your soul

a willing prisoner,

in these jewel moments of your life

although they are just photos on the piano?

 

We have captured the growing girl:

here,

the beaming infant in you –

hands spread wide

to span the joy,

to contain the view,

you,

lying toothless on the play-mat

your sister used;

or here,

an older you

refusing the snap,

hands up batting away the camera

like some over-papped celebrity –

your crooked, self-conscious teeth

before retainers.

School photos and

birthday songs

holidays,

sing-a-longs.

For us

a record of your history

to check that we

have done the best we can.

For you

a list of treasure times

that step you from

Not that

to That

which you choose to

Be.

A road map to

look back at

and look forward from.

And I am

This

and have been caught by you, too,

in your mind’s eye.

But I, for you, have always been

This,

just This.

For as you grow

your change of view

accommodates the me you know

the fixed point

safe, slow

unchanging

as you come and go.

This is you, father.

My father is This.

Now you have left home

and your visits are less frequent

and the sliding of the years

appears to speed.

And you will see

This

age.

While you are not here

you will see the crest

fall

and the crumpling page

of my face as my cheeks sag

around the growing gaps in my teeth.

Muscles will slacken,

Jowls drop.

Where once I could contain the

issues of my body

now, I cannot.

And this crumbling hair 

will give up these final

feeble efforts

and you will see

the wind blowing

through the gaps

between hair and scalp

and realise that

This,

too,

shall pass.

Me reading That & This on Soundcloud

One Hot Saturday Night

They’re hot.

Steaming.

He can still taste their last kiss,

still smell her hair

when she had nuzzled into him.

Now,

out in the cool street

she tugs at his arm.

God, I want some, she whispers, now.

Not here, he says.

Yes, here, right here!

No, in the car.

In the car

she starts pulling at him again.

Give me, she says.

She’s panting

a ravenous bird,

her cavernous mouth,

a pink flash of tongue.

Windows steaming up.

She’s hungry – a wolf –

white teeth, red claws,

scratching

demanding.

He goes to kiss her

but she pushes him off –

her craving not for soft love.

She is hawk, she is animal.

They pull at their clothes.

He feels the growing warmth in his thighs

as he writhes

his shoulders

then arms free

from his jacket.

She’s in his lap now – 

all fingers –

pulling,

tugging,

her lips are wet,

slippery.

Have you brought anything? she breathes

Of course, 

Always.  Boy scout.

Then for fuck's sake get it.

He reaches across her

and flips open the glove box,

gropes blindly for

the small plastic packet.

Come on, she says,

For fuck's sake, come on!

She's wild.

He dances the packet in front of her.

She grabs it -

Let me fucking do it,

you fucking tease!

She takes the corner in her mouth,

teeth clenched 

she rips the packet open

and squeezes

the glossy

red liquid

all over

the chips.

In the Queue, too

Dawn was rather overcast and gloomy when I walked in this morning, but she cheered up a little when she got her rosy-tipped fingers on the bundle of notes I brought for her to count.  She flicked the corners up with deft digits and bundled them into hundreds before filing them away in her money drawer.

No Rose today, Ron was sat in the middle at “Cashier No2, please.”  Judging by the clouds that hovered around Dawn, Ron was not having a good day.  By the doubtful sideways glances that Dawn was giving him I could tell he didn’t really know what he was doing.

            -  You’ll have to start that again, she said, nodding at the job in hand.  No, you’ll have to recount.

She sighed quietly while he started again.

Dawn entered the amounts on her keyboard and I handed her the cheques as Ron finally sold his customer a second class and sent her on her way.  She was not best pleased either, judging by the way she swung her bag for life off the counter.  The automatic door was definitely not quick enough for her this morning.

Just then Ahmed walked in from the Medina Stores next door clutching a piece of paper.  He saw Ron behind the glass and hesitated a moment, but he approached the counter.  A bit warily, though, I thought.

Doreen had evidently been out the back making tea because in she comes now with three mugs – two in one hand, one in the other – and a packet of Abernethy under her arm.  She delivered the mugs along the counter, reversed her large behind up onto her stool and deftly whipped the easy-open strip from around the biscuits.

            -  Hello, Ahmed, she called across, snapping a biscuit and dunking a piece in her tea.

            -  Hello, Doreen.

            -  Do you fancy a nibble, ducky?  She winked at me as her lipsticked mouth engulfed the soggy, crumbling fragment.

Ahmed grunted as he passed his paper under the glass to Ron, who studied it, front and back, as if he wasn’t sure what he should be doing with it.

            -  What’s this?  he said

            -  It’s me gas bill, said Ahmed, I need to pay it.

            -  Well I know that!  I can see that!  But what’s this… this mark here… what’s that.  Looks like a big “C”. 

He flapped the bill at Ahmed

            -  Oh that, said Ahmed, it’s coffee.  I put me cup down on it yesterday.  That’s what reminded me to pay it.

Ron huffed.

            - I can hardly make out the numbers.  You should be more careful.

He acted out holding it up close to his face and studying hard.

            -  You don’t want to get yourself cut off, eh, Ahmed, said Doreen.

            -  No, certainly not.

Dawn was just starting to sort my change out, sixty eight pounds’ worth, when something caught my eye behind her on the floor.  A sudden blurry, furry movement.  A rat? – no surely not.  It couldn’t be – not in a post office.

I said nothing.

Dawn tipped herself off her stool and bowled over to the change drawer.  She stood there rifling through the various packets of pennies and two pence pieces.  I’d been looking at the Health Lotto cards wondering what the odds were when suddenly there was a sharp yelping noise and a small brown pointed face jumped up in front of me and immediately disappeared again.  Another yelp and the face appeared again, jumping even higher, before falling back down.

            -  Timothy! get down, snapped Dawn.

Once more the yelp and a small brown dog appeared, jumping up behind the counter in a desperate attempt to get onto it!  He looked as if he’d take my fingers off if he could get at them.

            - That’s some jump he’s got on him, I said, glad of the glass between us.

            -  He’ll get his muzzle on him in a minute, said Dawn.

Once again the little dog jumped .  Again, and again.

            -  Timothy! growled Dawn.  How many times have I told you?  Right.

She dropped the bags of change she was counting out, went to her handbag on the floor by the back wall and pulled out a length of black cloth.  She marched over towards my window and the bouncing dog, and flipped the cloth strap onto the counter.  The buckle clicked loudly against the glass.  

She held out a finger of admonition.

            -  I’m not joking! she said.

I could tell she wasn’t.  We could all tell she wasn’t.  Even Timothy could tell she wasn’t.  I couldn’t see him now, down on the floor, but I could imagine his little face, his cowed eyes, his lively tail starting to droop as the thought of the muzzle filled his tiny, bouncing head.

Dawn turned to look at me from hooded lids.  She still wasn’t joking.

In The Queue

"I Love Lucy"

There’s a female weather forecaster who really knows how to charm me.

The way she demonstrates the map is surefire to disarm me.
And the strength of these warm feelings is beginning to alarm me,

Keeley looking lovely

but, although she is quite lovely too,

it isn’t Keeley Donovan.

(Hope you're not too disappointed Keeley...you're probably my No2!)

Helen certainly knows her arse from her anticyclone

I love her in the morning when the Sun begins to shine

I love her in the afternoon although it isn’t fine

I love her in the evening when the breeze is soft and balmy

And, although she really knows her stuff,

it isn’t Helen Willets.

(You're smart, Helen, just not my type...)

Isobel, oh Isobel...

I haven’t had a crush like this or felt this sort of pang

since I was left bereft of love by the gorgeous Isobel Lang.

For when the storm’s about to hit there’s only one who’ll calm me

but, although she is a stunner, too,

There's something about Laura... gales.

it isn’t Laura Tobin.

(Isobel, oh Isobel...)

Wendy Hurrell... check out youtube

Don’t get me wrong, by other weather girls I’m not annoyed.

Wendy Hurrell has a friendly look, as does Sian Lloyd.

Steady, Sian, steady!

But when the forecast is severe, my fantasy must star me

with the focus of my lust

not Liam bleeding Dutton

Liam Dutton... 'nuff said.

(No offence, Liam, but... well...)

I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in expressing such a “whoop”

My brother, too, I see has joined an appreciative facebook group

where men like us can fantasise and drive each other barmy

with talk of dreams and wedding plans,

of dinner dates and baby scans,

of how we’d like to just hold hands

with Lucy Verasamy.

Definitely breezy, hot and "on the coool side"

Troublesome Inclinations

Twice today, 

I have witnessed

the slope of a pavement

catch out a mother with

a child in a pushchair:

two smart women

checking messages

on their smart phones

as strollers roll

quietly away toward traffic.

source: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/
raquel-dapice/a-baby-book-of-disasters_b_5112915.html

The first 
by a bus-stop

brought to the tense present 

by the shoulder-prodding

finger

of a fellow queuer 

who was aware

of the lack

of awareness.

The second, 
on Upper Albert Road,

with a freshly collected 

school-aged infant in tow,

is immediately

alarmed by the speed

of the escaping

buggy.

She lunges forward

as I pass her
on the opposite path

but she still
has time

to flash me

an embarrassed smile.

To a child in the street outside

You seem to be in my place.

Surely
it should be me

out there 

running

in the street

giggling

hand in hand

with the best of my friends

hair bobbing
and our eyes 
flashing dares to each other

dashing somewhere

on the whim
of a sudden plan.

It seems that you 

have taken my place

and the run of this street 

is yours.

Or have I

backed out

of my own accord?

To sit now

drained from work,
slippered
and silvering,

watching through grimy glass

wondering when

the giggle

deserted

my chest.

To feel each present
and perhaps constructed
laugh
modulating 
then resolving

into an interrupted
cadence.

Ryan and Kenny

He was sat on the wall when I first saw him, hugging his knees to his chin.  Like a cat in the sunshine, I thought – but actually, no.  As I came close I saw the furrows in his brow, the slight pallor in his cheek.

He watched me approaching from the corner of Peel Street; his gaze focussed, demanding.  But it was only after I had passed him that he spoke.  Quite softly.

             -     He will be all right, won't he?

It seems we had been conversing all the time – in his head.

I turned to look back at him.  He was evidently close to tears, or at least as close as a ten year old boy would allow himself.

             -     Sorry?

I had missed the rhythm of my step and had to allow him his say.

             -     He'll be all right, won't he?

It was a genuine question.  He sought reassurance but the tone of his voice implied that I should actually know the answer.

             -     Who?

             -     Kenny.  I didn't mean to hurt him, he said.

He so needed me to pick up the thread.  His lip quivered.  But then sudden fury.

             -     But he was being such a fucking twat!

A tear spilled down his cheek.  He angrily pushed the ball of his thumb into his eye to stem the flow.

             -     Did you have a fight? 

Brilliant deduction.  I was all over it.

             -     He was asking for it!  So I give him a tap.  He was asking for it.

Poor kid, I thought.  He's frightened himself.

             -     So I hit him…

             -     I expect he'll be fine.

             -     ...then the ambulance came and they picked him up, but they couldn't wake him.  Fucking twat.  Why wouldn’t he wake up?  It was only a tap.

An ambulance?  Blimey!  Maybe I should shut up.

             -     … on his head …with a bit of brick.  He will be all right won't he?

             -     Er… They know what they're doing.

I floundered for words.  He needed something to cling to but for all I knew Kenny was dead.  I couldn't just make it up.  Hit on the head with a brick. Death was not unlikely!

I could just see him stood over the limp boy, bloodied brick in hand.  Perhaps a passer by raising the alarm – 999.  Then him, just stood there, while yellow-vested paramedics busied themselves dressing the wound; trying to revive their comatose patient; asking questions: 

             -     What's his name, son?

             -     Kenny.

             -     Kenny?  Can you hear me, Kenny?

Nothing.

             -     We're taking you to hospital, Kenny.  Kenny.

Nothing.

             -     Who are you, son?  You his brother?

             -     Yeah.

             -     What's your name, son?

             -     Ryan

             -     Well, Ryan, can you go and get your mum?  We'll need to take Kenny in to treat him straightaway.  Your mum'll need to know.

They must have disappeared off leaving Ryan struggling with the enormity of knowing nothing.

             -     Did you tell your mum?  I asked

             -     Mrs Webb went.  Me mam's at the hospital.

             -     Who's at home then?  Maybe you should go home and wait.  Where's your Dad?  Will he be home soon?

             -     Christmas.

             -     Sorry?

             -     He's on rigs.  Oil rigs.  He won't be home while Christmas.

             -     Oh…

Nothing else came. 

Reluctantly I succumbed to the silent fog invading my brain.

I stood there looking at Ryan. 

He looked at me – waiting for me to become of some use.

Nothing.

After a dumb, eternal moment, a police car drew up on the other side of the road - no siren but the lights were flashing.  The back door opened and a woman with untidily bleached hair got out onto the pavement.

             -     Ryan, she barked.  Get here now!

She scowled at me.

Ryan slid from the wall, rucking his track suit bottoms into the crevice between his buttocks.  He stepped into the road pulling at the cloth.

             -     Watch the bleeding traffic!

Ryan hesitated as a van volleyed passed him.  Then more carefully he stepped off the pavement and ambled across to his mother.  She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him into the car.

I stepped back and leant against the wall, and watched the vehicle speed away.

How Dads wee

When Dad

needs a wee

he lifts the seat of the toilet

with his left hand

and

undoes his trousers

with the other

he shuffles his feet apart

right up to the toilet bowl

and flops his willy out from his zip.

Straightaway

the wee comes

thundering down into the toilet,

bullets and bombs,

splashing into frothy foam.

I watch

and see it cover the whole

of the top of the water

and I smell

the strong smell it has

like lions

and swede.

And when he’s finished

and the last drops have dropped out

he shakes his willy

and squeezes and pulls at it

then tucks it back into his trousers.

The chain always takes two pulls to flush

a quick one then a hard one

Then at the sink

Dad grabs the Imperial Leather

and rubs it under the hot tap

and makes more foam

clean foam.

 - Come on, lad, he says

drying his hands on the towel

and then he pushes me

out of the bathroom door.

One day

I will wee

like that.

The Herd

At our writing class we have been thinking about voice - the voice of characters, the voice we use - this poem came from an exercise set as homework.  It is an interesting process for me to start from a 'given' idea rather than something that has sprung from deeper within.  It took me a while to find a voice and to find what I wanted to say using it....

You may not  know it

but we watch you

in your muddled lives.

We see how you walk,

stalking

on hind legs.

Impressive –

if impractical.

It can’t be easy,

but with those greasy

free hands

what damage you do;

always scrabbling at things –

somehow

always drawing blood.

And your noise –

so shrill and pipey.

But what do you do?

We never see you eat –

How’s that?

Do you not eat

or drink, to quench a summer thirst,

or shit,

or flag the flies away,

or scratch your rumps?

You just slope up to the gate

mooing,

yahooing,

then flay

a bunch of plucked grass

in your mangling hand,

beating it against the bars.

A gift?

No.

You make a weapon of fodder.

We won’t touch it

and you get bored.

We will only watch you

from this safe

distance –

so you go.

No,

we will not approach

those whom we cannot trust.

No.

We cannot trust those

with no mud between their toes.

You cannot know the depths of life

without owning that simplest of pleasures,

or the singular taste of a fresh

growth of grass

seasoned with thistle and nettle

and then

the richer consequence

of thickened cud

swirling around

the tongue

and cheeks

and teeth.

You don’t know

so you go,

you bony,

small,

illegitimate herd.