Sunday, 31 May 2020

My Bag
I have a lifetime of projects,
that I carry round in a plastic bag.
A paper bag would be better
environmentally,
but plastic is more durable.
And it needs to be.
It has had to last a lifetime,
my bag.
A lifetime of ideas,
thoughts,
doings and sayings
carefully annotated and stored
for use sometime later.
To be finished, or started
sometime later.
I can add an idea,
capture a thought,
write it down,
so it will be there,
safe,
in my bag.
It's getting heavy
my bag.
Who would have thought
that dreams
could be so heavy,
even encased in paper.
It's getting full
my bag.
So is my life empty
with everything on the inside.
Perhaps now it’s time
to start emptying it out.
Slowly though.
One at a time,
and with care.
It's getting late.
But not too late,
I hope,
to empty my bag.


AMAZON.COM
The Stray Branch: Spring/Summer 2020

Friday, 29 May 2020

Can’t Breathe
We are being suffocated
in this society
of masks and
miasmas,
of family connections
and corporate interests
smothering us
with hidden pillows of power
and corruption,
of prejudice
hardly hidden
in institutions
we thought would protect us all.
We are all George Floyd
potentially
behind the mask.
NEWVERSENEWS.BLOGSPOT.COM
The New Verse News presents politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues.

Thursday, 28 May 2020

We Should Have Seen It Coming
To begin with the dark parts were small
tiny black squares in the brightness,
we should have seen it growing
recognised its full potential
noticed the blurred edges
allowing it to creep
outwards
imperceptibly
almost invisibly.
And now
there’s hardly a space between the black parts
and little space for brightness around them.
Even the red no longer looks dangerous
however vibrantly it tries to intervene
the darkness is winning
slowly but
exponentially
covering it all.
We should have seen it coming.
How did we not see it?
I think it’s too late
to halt it
now.

Wednesday, 27 May 2020

This Is Not An Egg
The egg box was so sculptural with it’s peaks and troughs
like a metaphor, a mirror of life in textured paper,
I thought a giant version could easily become
an acclaimed art installation
and I thought I could make it.
And then I remembered the glasses
left behind in a museum of modern art
by error or intent,
real glasses,
not the “ne sont pas les lunettes”
Magrittean sort,
I could feel some guerrilla art hatching inside me.
I fetched the pot egg from under the broody hen
and pondered the possibilities on the way to the gallery.
There, I placed the egg box on a table,
sneaked it in
between the other exhibits
then I placed the Magrittean egg inside.
Just the one egg seemed most fitting
especially since one was all I had.
I had already written the title card.
Such a work deserved two titles
one above and one below the artist’s name,
my name, of course.
First came: “THIS IS NOT AN EGG”
and underneath:
“THIS IS NOT AN EXHIBIT”
It was perfectly placed
and looked magnificently subversively ironic.
I think Magritte would be proud of my effort.
And now I must wait
to see if anyone notices.





Tuesday, 26 May 2020

Bath Time
The bath used to hang on the wall
in the scullery.
Not our scullery.
His scullery.
We borrowed it from Mr Neil
who rented us the rooms
at the front of his house.
One down, one up.
My mother would knock on his door
and he would lift it down for her.
But she had to carry it to our
living room.
It was heavy,
made of zinc she said.
It took a lot of water
which had to be carried from the outside
tap and then heated on our gas ring.
It took a lot of hot water
and had to be filled
and emptied
with a jug.
Sometimes it was just too much work
for her
and she washed me in a bowl
as I sat on her fat lap.
It was snuggly.
I preferred it
that way
really.
EPHEMERALELEGIES.COM
The bath used to hang on the wall in the scullery. Not our scullery. His scullery. We borrowed it from Mr Neil who rented us the rooms at the front of his house. One down, one up. My mother would k…

Sunday, 24 May 2020

All The Devils Were There
I used to dress in bakers white
and take a basket of bread
to Halloween parties.
I never found many takers.
Spiced pumpkin,
apple cakes
and candy
were always more popular.
So I had a re-think.
Now I take a basket of babies.
They can’t get enough of them
all of those devils out there,
even those who come as angels
gather round for a bite.
Just one bite will transform them
so they’ll leave as devilish
as the rest.
MSUMREDWEATHER.WORDPRESS.COM
Contributors Red Weather Officers Prose Zachary Howatt- He Tasted Fuzz on His Tongue Megan Miranda- Second Opinion Catherine Kisongo- Dear Mama Africa and Self-Love Josiah Olson- The Golden Years o…

Friday, 22 May 2020

As The River Flows
The river flows by
but doesn’t carry me with it
as I sit solidly on the bank side
watching my reflection fragmenting
and reforming.
It can’t carry away my reflection either,
can only move it around,
destroy and
recreate it
with a bit of a breaking backdrop
which,
on reflection
tells me little about
where I am,
or who,
or why.
It leaves me behind.
It always will,
unless
I enter and let it
float me
away.
AMAZON.COM
The Stray Branch: Spring/Summer 2020

Thursday, 21 May 2020

Timescale
We see the sights, gawp at the spectacles,
go on expensive excursions to view them.
We have forgotten that they were built to subdue us,
to shock and awe
make us feel small
and insignificant,
to know our place in the scheme of things.
But we take for granted the everyday enormities,
the skycrapering giants of utilitarianism
towering over our Lilliputian selves.
We have long ceased to wonder,
to be impressed by their scale.
We play our games,
and live our lives
under their shadows,
and we don’t even see them.
It doesn’t matter our subjugation is complete.

THEDRABBLE.WORDPRESS.COM
By Lynn White We see the sights, gawp at the spectacles, go on expensive excursions to view them. We have forgotten that they were built to subdue us, to shock and awe make us feel small and insign…