the crone

Once upon a time there was a little girl.

Who kept shutting her arm in the door.

She wanted to break her arm, so no one would ever read the words she had written.

She wanted to hide her words, to protect them from harm.

My words have been stuck in the door since I was 11.

I’m here to let them out.

__________________________ * * * ____________________

You can’t rhyme Orange

You can’t rhyme orange, no matter how you try.

I suppose you could cheat and say,

‘Orange in a Pie’

And then the Pie could fly

(Into the sky).

Or the Orange could cry

(about being in a Pie).

But…

That’s an easy thing to do,

When the orange is in pastry.

But you can’t rhyme orange,

So this is just a waste(ry).

I don’t want to be borindge,

About rhyming with orange.

So there’s no easy way to confess,

That I made up a word

That no-one has heard

Just to get myself out of this mess.

No. You just cannot rhyme with orange,

And I must end here, I’m feeling.

There were no juicy rhymes,

Just dictionary crimes

That no-one would find a-peeling.

(But what about banana?)

____________________________________

Word Whore

I am writing poetic pieces on the fleeting joys of family life.

Whilst missing out on my own family.

And being a moaning haggard harridan when I do see them.

I am prostituting my craft and soul for people to red line it,

scar it.

Chop it.

Hurt it.

Ah, poor me!

I am but a lost poet who needs to scrape and sing to buy food and shelter.

How I hate myself.

Turning tricks with words

I banter to put up the price

I sell a fantasy against your reality.

I flaunt and flirt

and flash temptation.

You cannot afford it.

I make you want it

Desire it.

Buy it.

I have never felt so close to a breakdown

in communication

with

myself

.

_________________________________________

Old Hand

Whose old lady hands are those?

Folded so primly

sitting so neatly on a lap

Set for work

Who’s old lady hands are those?

Guarding her world behind wrinkles and rings

Those old hands have lived and loved

Soothed a fevered child, wiped tears, cleaned faces, written words

Closed doors

And opened new ones

Held a dying father in one hospital room

Soothed a saddened son in another

Prepared medicines and vegetables

Baked and roasted, and washed and toasted

Clapped with joy

And clasped in sorrow

Yesterday.

Today,

Tomorrow.

Whose old lady hands

But mine.

---

Eternal return

Perfect petal
Brief beauty

Unfolding life’s mystery.

Fragile, fragrant, blushing blossom
Keep secret transformation at your core –
a fruitful feast from a little flower!
A higher power
behind every bud.

Complete creation. Delicate realization
that frail and fleeting, we too fade and drop.

Natural wonder:
is it only then that we begin?

---

Not going to work

The door bangs

Silence descends

On grey tufted carpet

Pale blank walls

Cream paintwork;

The house sighs.

The ghost of toast hangs lightly in the hall

The scurrying action

The hurried instruction

The frenzied shove of arm in jacket

Book in bag

Key in hand

All over.

All gone

To work

Leaving the house behind

Who knows what dramas have been played out behind those frail nets we pass?

The fevers soothed

The hearts broken

The souls departing

The joy

The despair

Caught behind walls

The house listens on

without judgement

A shell around our lives.

---

Boxed up Boy

I love his face.

His ears reddening, his cheeks reddening, when he sees (knows)
He has done something wrong.

I love his range of facial expressions.

I hate myself for even loving the way his face crumples
in such vividly visual disappointment (in himself, in his toy).

His face speaks a thousand emotions, a thousand words to me.

His thick, thatchy hair (it spikes you to kiss).
His gappy teeth and square ‘little man’ jaw.
His wiry, robust and strong little body.

I want him to get the Stars Of Achievement.
I want him to read The Words.
I want him to reach the rainbow square and show them all.
Show them all.

I want his teachers to like and understand him.
I want other children to love him as I do.

He is so funny.
So, different.

I fear he will choose never to fit in,
and be lost forever.

I hold his warm little hand.
My heart is fierce with protective love; not soppy:
I am fighting my love,
To help him understand the sorrow of having
To ‘Fit in’
To ‘Do as he is told’
To ‘Be like all the others’.

To crush his exuberant madness,
His brainwaves,
His creative force.

To crunch him up,
Tight.
In a box.
Like school and society want.

Controllable, bland, Vanilla Boy.

Owey, Owey Oatflake.

Hide and hold a fragment of your beautiful, crazy, shiny self.

You have no idea how it will comfort you when you are older.

---

When will there be Dessert?

Dirty pan, mucky plates
Not wiped clean
In a mess
Smelly, sticky, ugly to see
Cold, coagulated vomitus
Thrown up and thrown away

Half munched, half crunched
Chewed knobs of gristle, cold lumps of fat
Half gnawed stomach contents in your eyes
EAT THEM
EAT THEM
Chew them
Swallow them
Lick your lips and smile through sick

Go back for seconds
Go on!
Force it down
And then go back for more.

When does this end?
When Will There Be Dessert?

Only when your plate is empty
Licked clean, wiped shiny

So swallow every piece of shit
In the hope of something sweet

If you still have the appetite for it by then.