SHOE BOX

Curiously
no shoes

only a dance card
from 1932

totally filled in
by only 2 beau

who Tango'd &
Pas a Doble'd her

alternately
all night

waiting for her
to choose

one or the other
(both brothers) .

She choose the fair-haired one
(for his sense of fun)    

the red-haired one
(always so moody)    

never forgave her or
his brother

became a missionary
in Trinidad & Tobago
.

A lock of baby's hair
(still so perfect)    

bound tightly in pink ribbon

lost after only a week
of which they would never speak

as the dried up tears
like shrivelled mummified spiders

resting now
among a trove of birthday cards

that declare the passing time
gaudier year by year.

Old love letters
written in intense violet

on almost see-through
onion thin yellow paper.

The shoes she remembers
were a violent red

chosen for the same shade
red as her lipstick.

A neat ticket
for a Venetian vaporetto

unused from
1962

with a telephone number
scribbled in scrawl

hurriedly across it.

A beautiful button
(a work of art in itself)    

from a favourite cloak
left behind in a favourite pub

as England win
the World Cup

made her look
like Little Red Riding Hood

or as her hubby put it:
'A fairy tale...*** on legs! '

A ginger tom
(with one eye missing)  
sleeps on top

of all
this

as if it were his
own private berth

in this ship of foolish
things

her box of things
unaware

that Virginia
is dead.

"SO....THE DAYS HAVE WORN AWAY...HAVE THEY?"

Mrs. Havisham
ran from her dream
and into the arms

of her husband.
she was trembling
like a dying bird

held in the hand
tears falling on it
"Dearest...dearest!"

Mr. Havisham tried to
cajoled her back to
some kind of reality

"Oh, Mr. Havisham sir..!"
she palpitated
"I drempt I was on fire

and my world
was all cobwebs and dust
cobwebs and dust!"

"And, that...
I was never
married

and that I was
but a character in a book
by that Mr. Dickens!"

"Shhhhh...shhhhhh!"
her husband
shushed her

and she slept
in his embrace
as real as real

a ray of sunshine
entered their room
bowing before them

announcing
in a loud morning voice
"Your world........awaits you!"

*

I like fictional characters as they can be even further fictionalised! One can then give them other various possible possibilities and invent other futures...other lives for them and see how they unfurl themselves into whoever you make them be on just a passing whim. I've just wrote another called ROMEO &...MARY.

The title is of course my favourite quote of Miss H from the book but it always reminds me of a SAMUEL BECKETT line.

WAITING FOR THE MAN or UNHAPPY DAYS.

THE TICK OF THE TOCK

the clock
stuffing yet another tick tock
into an already packed silence

the grandfather clock
stopping the mouse in mid squeak
pausing the spider that...weaves

"****!"
chanted the clock
"****! ****! ****!"

"****!"
the grandfather clock
freezing time for an instant

my young face
reflected in the grandfather clock
the big hand at my left ear the little hand at my chin

the seconds
swinging on the pendulum
of the old grandfather

"****!"
shouted the grandfather clock
lining up all the seconds into an hour

the grandfather clock
stopping grandfather in his tracks
to check his fob watch

TIME running
in fear of its life
chased by the grandfather clock

*

Tumbled out of bed with these running about my head...typed them in a minute and here they are running about the world riding ******* on an Internet....should have saved them for New Year's Eve but it was so nice to have thought them...wrote them and then Internetted them all in the space of 5 minutes. The grandfather clock just walked into my mind and asked me to write him so I couldn't say no...now ...could I?  

Next the nest of tables have taken fright and taken flight...oh now the chairs are staging a sit-in and the table has barred the door. I can't think...the light bulbs have gone on the blink. Help...the furniture is rebelling against its inhuman human masters.."It's curtains for you buddy boy!" the curtains sneer in a threatening manner. The windows don't know where to look. "It's all gone **** up!" shouts the unmade bed. The fridge is looking at me coldly. The chair is having it off with the stair. Where oh where will it all end! Helppppppppppppppppppp!!!!!

DAYS WILL BE DAYS

The world awoke
to her.

Here it was
in all its glory

but it appeared to be
day-less.

As if it was just
a chunk of time

without a particular
day attached to it.

"How peculiar..?" she rubbed her eyes
"How...very. . .peculiar!"

But it somehow
smelt like a Sunday.

That stale smell of boredom
and time gone rotten.

Just then the clock
flicked over its neon green

numbers to create
the fact that it was

indeed seven and
indeed a Sunday.

She snuggled down
under her duvet

refusing to come out
and meet the world

which sent its sunlight
sneaking through the slats

in order to spy upon her
search her out.

She decided to see if
she could climb back into

the dream she had
been in

but it closed
itself to her.

It was no use.
Seven of the clock it was.

And a Sunday
to boot.

She yawned like a cat.
And the cat copied her.

Looking blindly for her glasses.
Finding them with her foot.

She tried to bring the world
into focus.

I don't like Sundays she sang
to the tune of I Don't Like Mondays.

Outside the window
the world waited patiently for her. . .

FROZEN LAUGHTER

we dashed outside
as the sky was
falling

“Crunch...crunch...crunch! ”
chanted the snow
as our footprints chatted to it

in a bold red
booted voice
and slowly a bird

wrote itself across the sky
with such careful
calligraphy

& our laughter
froze
right in front of our noses

LONG NIGHT MOON

Winter tightens
its grip
on the landscape

fastens
the long night's cloak
about itself

a moon hung
above an horizon
for the longest time

the sun
hangs its head
in shame

I call your name
your name
like a spirit that my breath

conjures up
nailed to the night
with stars

each precious sound
written in frost
the world turns and you

are not on it -
I dare to speak
your absence

grief tightens
its grip
I fling your name

like a stone
at a careless universe
that is not listening

Death even further
beyond belief
than a small boy

can even
begin
to...imagine

SNOWSTORMS
( for Junie )

It was the most magical thing
I’d ever seen

a winter scene
with a stumpy little snowman

leaning on a broom
and snow coloured trees.

The snowman was always smiling.

Then the world shook
and turned upside down

and the blizzard began again.

Snowflakes falling in
slow motion.

I wanted them to fall forever.

My sister smiling at
my: “Again...again! ”

turned the little glass world
upside down

and once again the snowflakes fell
so slowly suspended in time.

I smiled at the snowman smiling.
My sister smiled at me.

I would spend time after time
forever after

playing with
suspended Time

stopping the world
to begin it again.

One day it fell
(shattered)    
and spilled out

all across the lace table cloth
lapping at the evil smelling geraniums.

The snowman was plastic
(and the snow was plastic too) .

Time poured itself out to
the edge of the table

& drip by drop
pooled itself on the living room floor.

Time was only an illusion
its mystery

nothing more
than my tears

crying for what could never be
again.

Somewhere in Time
a bus is crashing.

I can still see my sister smiling...

...a world falling out of her hand