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Paul Hansford Nov 2016
If I wanted to write a poem for you, what would I write about?
   - Better not go too far
Other eyes than yours may sparkle
    - Better be very careful  
Other lips may smile
     - Better not say too much
Other cheeks may blush
      - Better not seem to have said too much
Other names may have music in them
       - Better say nothing at all
But my poem would not be for others; it would be for you
        - Better not even consider it
So this is just to say, this is not a poem
        - But it could have been.
  Oct 2016 Paul Hansford
Tom Balch
It
There is a tapping at the window
and a rustling at the door,
there is a creaking on the staircase
like I´ve never heard before,
there is scratching in the attic
and there is banging from the shed,
me thinks, I´d better do a runner
or I´ll be ending up quite dead.

Something! doesn’t want me here
that´s what I suppose,
something weird and scary
is a lurking in this house,
there´s a shadow floats across the hall
that glows a greenish yellow,
I´m sinking lower in my chair...
I am one real frightened fellow.

Soot is falling from the chimney
and slates are rattling up on high,
the door starts opening slowly
and my nerves begin to fry,
I turn and look towards the door
and my eyes I can´t believe,
it´s coming from the shadows
and it is coming straight at me.

It was yellow, green and purple
and it smelled of ***** socks,
it floated in real scary like
and it was something not to mock,
its fangs were long and pointed
its eyes they shined bright red,
its breath was grey and icy cold
Oh! I knew I should have fled.

It must have stood nine feet or more
a sight to scare the bravest men,
its hair was white, made of wire
and on each hand its fingers numbered ten,
the finger nails looked razor sharp
they were pointed, they were long,
its hands were blue the veins were black
and it was out to do me wrong.

My throat was dry I couldn´t scream
I was shaking head to toe,
my limbs were frozen, I could not move
as it came towards me really slow,
three feet away it held its ground
its red eyes stared right into mine,
it pointed down at me and said
for you my friend it´s now the time.

With one swift move it grabbed my throat
and dug its nails in deep,
I could feel my life was draining
and down my neck I felt the warm blood seep,
it lifted me from out my chair
and flung me at the wall,
then it kicked me all around the room
and out into the hall.

That´s when I heard the door bell ring.
Could it be “trick or treat” kids come to call?
I´ll **** them all, it screamed at me
and left me writhing  in deaths thrall,
with green saliva spilling from its mouth
this odious creature headed to the door,
I feared so for the children
but laid so helpless on the floor.

It paused and turned then snarled at me
I´ll be back to eat your spleen,
If you´ve last words speak them now...
I said “Wish Facebook friends a scary Halloween,
It was a vicious beast to say the least
but this story is not true,
you see I used the poets licence
to write this shocker just for you*.
Paul Hansford Oct 2016
I.
As you survey this marble hall
And cast your eye around the wall,
Consider the polyglot graffiti.
I personally find them far from pretty.
- That last line could have been more spectacular
Had I indulged in the vernacular,
But I thought it best, at this seat(!) of learning
to give my phrase a more modest turning.

II.
We would sit here and read with pride
the words we’d written up inside,
and when the caretaker rubbed them out,
we didn’t scream, we didn’t shout,
but knuckled down like Oxford men
to write graffiti up again.
So now the Taylor’s rarest, if not best,
this manuscript’s its only palimpsest.
Part I was composed during an idle moment at the Taylorian Institution, Oxford, the modern and mediaeval languges centre of the University of Oxford.  Part II when I returned in a new term and found the walls the walls re-written after a thorough cleaning.
- Kilroy, for those who don't know him, is the phantom graffitist who writes "Kilroy was here" on any availablr toilet wall.
- Palimpsest is a document written over an old one where writing has been erased.
Paul Hansford Sep 2016
These children
round-eyed
absorbing what the world offers them
or silently wandering in their own
imagination
must lose their innocence and grow
older but not necessarily wiser.
Paul Hansford Sep 2016
Green glass
but it's French
which makes it
verre vert.
The French should like that.
They appreciate
their jeux de mots.

Not a statue
of a man
but it could be.
Not a piece of art at all
except
I have made it so
by saying it is one.

Its qualities
are visual
and tactile at once
the material heavy
(over a kilo)
not so much transparent
as translucent
the colour
from under the sea
the surface curved
smooth
glossy
the shape functional
admirably suited for its purpose
its name
embossed on the back
(or the front?)
giving a clue.

L' ÉLECTRO VERRE
redundant insulator
from an overhead power cable
found object
(objet trouvé)
from the garden
of friends
in the Alpes-Maritimes.

This souvenir
potential paperweight
ornament
sculpture
is more than all of these.

Souvenir after all
is French for memory.
This doesn't give the full impression without a photograph.  Luckily, that is available at < flickr.com/photos/48763199@N04/5901032327/ >
Paul Hansford Sep 2016
Nobody can understand how another person's mind works.
Nobody can travel across time.
Nobody can be in two places at once.

So if I were Nobody, I could read your mind.
If I were Nobody, I could time-travel to where you are.
If I were Nobody, I could be with you and still be where I am.

But is that the way it works?
Sadly, no.
It is all a fantasy,
just playing with words,
totally impossible.

In any case, I don't want to be Nobody.
I want to be Somebody,
to be a part of your life.
But I can do nothing,
except give you my love,

and hope you return it.
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