Poetry

various poems from the last few years

What It Is And What It Isn’t

For example, I don’t think it’s the monkey we saw masturbating up a tree the day we snuck off to the zoo, though he had that slightly love-struck look,
Cherry

A Cautionary Tale

Based on a true story.
Cherry

A Meeting

Fumbling fog-blind through the woods I felt a heavy shift, a movement nearby pacing me to its own rythmn. Wrapped in thick grey nothingness a breathing thing waiting now.

A Nuclear Family

There’s violence lurking in the breakfast things. Forced to feed in the company of strangers - no-one fits their mug-shots yet - sore bears kicked from slumber snarl

A Theory Of Music

It's said the blue whale has more perfect pitch than you or I can ever hope for, four octaves below middle C they croon in the shivering chambers of the deep blue sea

A Ton Of Muck

You've got to eat a ton of muck before you die, Uncle George would say and said it just before he croaked having presumably eaten his allotment. He meant it either as wise counsel
Cherry

Artifice

That day we wandered onto a film set - remember? Under the arch and through the bright sheen of the afternoon flickering off the river, in a moment smothered
Cherry

Bull's Eye

It stared up at me, the lidless eye in thick white fat, a fixed look of one-eyed surprise. The object was dissection, to get at how this unseeing eye worked, peer and poke
Gold cherry

Cornish Fire, From A Distance

Alerted by a sudden message crackling through branches baked by summer, the village stirred and distant sirens raced towards something terribly alive across the fields,

message

u txt me of snow i draw back the curtains & c the drift below a blank page waiting the press of words these things the msg on a glowing screen the untouched snow our shorthand

Exposure

The flesh uncovered in instalments, she paid out bit by bit behind the bike sheds, the school blouse peeled revealed the marvellous mechanics of the brassiere. A whispered click,

Delinquent Wins Haiku Contest

Tek a pidgin, right? Pump it up wi helium - There’s yer bleedin' high coo.
Cherry

The Belt

I must have done something to deserve it, I don’t recall. Slouching from the room I’d muttered and mumbled and my father - drained from a business trip - had heard

The Woods

The winter woods You already knew Were new to us Again you had the edge On me, the calm Of secret knowledge Settled like cupped water In your palm I know wood and water

In The Clouds

It is mid-afternoon, the time I set aside to write. Outside the winter dawdles, snow-packed clouds are holding back. It should be snowing. I should be writing. The pen hangs,

The Boy Who Thought He Could

Mother licked and slicked his hair back, then in a voice that dripped sugar sent him out to pick blackberries, to get him out from under her feet. He skirted the cliff, his arms flapped

The Fibber

He told me how he lay awake at night to catch shooting stars on his tongue, and washed by waiting till it rained. How once he’d taught a hen to tell the truth, then faked the eggs

Reunion

And even now, after so many years, so many coats of institutional whitewash, the corridors still smell of rage. The last thing I remember; running like hell on the last day, trailing

Slapstick

The men stood either side of each other, thick gloves clutching four corners of thin air. It seemed strange that nothing could be such a weighty matter,

Kafka's Algebra

I imagine Kafka after the night-shift In the Workers' Accident Insurance Institution Slouching home through the cobbled streets, Haunted by numbers. So it was no surprise one winter’s eve

Wolfman

had the old musty smell of damp fur as he prowled the shopping precinct, nosing in waste bins for scraps of some lost life or leftovers to build a future, circling round the shoppers
Cherry

In A Cafe, After The Orangerie

Drained, a thin February light slants through the cafe window and falls across the table. There's only so much beauty anyone can take. I feel I have resurfaced after time

The Water Table

Imagine sitting down to dine, the table edge lapping at, well, your lap, tucking the damp napkin of the river bank beneath your chin. A starter, something light and insubstantial to tease
Cherry

The Fox

Out on the uncombed lawn a burnt smudge snuffles through the undergrowth or lies proprietorial in the slanting sun. He's made a home in my garden, bronzed fur and white belly splayed

Prague

I stumbled across a gutted storefront, empty except for a hundred legs propped or lying useless and wondered if the mannequin bodies standing somewhere else could feel their missing limbs
Cherry

Fishing

A grey heron the dagger of his beak poised above the shimmer of the inlet, poised to detect the glimmer of scales, enquiring of the murk beneath. This lone moment
Cherry

Yellowstone

Shoveling snow from abandoned rooftops in Yellowstone would do me. That kind of raptured loneliness, wrapped in a blank white silence, the world a crisp new page
Cherry

On A Sunday Walk

An eruption of geese came yelling off the pond as if a bomb had dropped. Too soon for migration, more like a gang-fight or playground ruck, low and startled, almost in touching range,

The Sinister Art Of Listening In On Other People's Conversations

These mothers measuring their children, ticking off achievements and hindrances, the hard currency of this motherhood business, bartering individual brilliance.
Cherry

Early Learning

In summer we helped mix swill for penned and snouting pigs the foul stink of fermenting dregs mashed in a zinc bathtub with a shovel, larger than life for two small boys.

In The Wee Small Hours

There are sleeping pills in the bathroom cabinet. Try not to wake them.
Cherry

Note To An Aspiring Poet

I'd been in pompous mode considering myself a Poet, trying to get at meaning when my friend's 2 year old decided to tell me about his day. Under his guileless paw
Poem of the week

Last light

Much is made of sunset, That span of slow Luxurious passing. And in the end, Wouldn't we all like To go out that way? Arresting and slightly Doleful, day's end Slipping gently
Cherry

Land Art

Drawn to mark the earth With mortal tattoos These artists fashion Fragile appendices to nature. Whatever the opposite Of the search for immortality They chase it, knowing
Cherry

Snowfall

Out in the white clad White carpet woods It is not quiet Though I can barely hear a sound Just the whispered Crystal tumble of snowfall In the melt And a breathless thump

My Grandmother

Couldn’t get enough tea although She could barely stand still long enough To let the kettle boil. Family legend Claims a trace of gypsy blood and Irish temper To explain why she could be there
Cherry

Sparrows

She went to live in Ulm, City of sparrows, And so we sat in cafes by the Danube Admiring her new life. Sparrows hopped about Our coupled legs Beneath the tables. The streets were filled
Cherry

From The Shore

I like the fact that before the sea I am the same as you The same as everyone Who falls To the swell of waves That pulse towards land A reminder Of the pull To our other selves
Cherry

Seurat

At first The black umbrella On a sunny afternoon. Shadows lengthen As the day begins To unwind Green leaves rustle, Green shade falls Across the...
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