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).
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?)
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,
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
I have never felt so close to a breakdown
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
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
Whose old lady hands
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.
is it only then that we begin?
Not going to work
The door bangs
On grey tufted carpet
Pale blank walls
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
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
Caught behind walls
The house listens on
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.
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 creative force.
To crunch him up,
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
Lick your lips and smile through sick
Go back for seconds
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.