"bollard" poems
Suffering from cabin fever, I raided my cache of end-time sardines and went slipping and sliding down to the dock to feed the near-shore birds.
One lone Repelican sat upon a bollard by the boat launch seeming frozen to the spot. He was looking pretty grimm.
Taking pity on this cold, hungry waterbird former Marine-turned-Feeb, and apparently not stuck on I-275, this kindhearted Democrab was soon out of end-time sardines.
Telling him that I was sardine-poor but had one question I would like to ask concerning an investigation into questionable publicly financed bollard homesteading practices, the repugnant Repelican was not happy with me and stuck his long bill in my face while threatening to break me in half (like a boy) and throw me off of the effing dock before flapping away in a huff.
He called me later and asked to do lunch next week. Sardines on him.
r. ~ 29Jan14
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Sleeping coil of snake
slithered as my shadow fell~
rope slipped the bollard.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
In 1996 when the IRA blew up the Arndale
I was barely able to leave my house
After getting mugged the night before
Which left me with a major limp
For the next 18 months or so
And forced me to ring around friends
That I knew would normally be there
Praying they would be at home.
In 2007 I got led out of my works
Viva an underground tunnel
I hadn’t known about previously
After it was deemed unsafe outside
To walk around the corner as normal
When a hurricane dragged a bollard
Through the Chief Exectuive’s car
And other cars onto the next street.
In 2010 I ended up leading three women
I worked alongside at the Co-operative
To Manchester Piccadilly Train Station
Like James Bond mixed with the Pier Piper
Avoiding all of the bars laced with drunk fans
Just before Ranger’s Europa Cup final
At Manchester City’s Ethiad Stadium
Just before it exploded into chaos.
In 2011, I was getting drove back home
By a kindly Ambulance Crew
Hours after getting registered with Diabetes
When we drove into a gang of youths
And barely reversed out alive
Looting a shop I used to go in for
A sandwich nearly every morning
On the way into my work.
In 2017, I walked past
Manchester Victoria Train Station
About a half a hour before
A terrorist took the lives off
22 people including children
And left me barely able
To sleep for two days afterwards
Laid in complete shock.
Each tragedy or event
Staining emotions
No matter how close
I was to the action
Cherry-picking memories
Into frozen images
Across feelings
Stuck in time
Reprinting each day
Over and over
Into a compressed version
Of Groundhog Day
Shooting grief from my heart
No matter how close to the front I was
Or whispered in braille rain
Tapping in shadow like tears
Brining my eyes
Pushing my grief aside
And carrying on
Like so so many others.
(also blogged at http://onewriterandhispc.blogspot.co.uk/2017/06/from-1996-to-2017-emotional-history-off.html)
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
Androgyny
follows me as I walk a mile,
I sit on a bollard at the side of the road, which to all intents and a purpose, lightens the load,
time for a snack!
wonder what delights Mother decided to pack?
ugh
salad,
christ what a mess, egg and cress all over the place, but like everything else I face this with fortitude,
drink!
American cream soda, going to unload that right now,
crossing the road I'm into the 'Brown cow' a shady little spot in the snug, by the bar, a pint of best bitter and a bit la di da, I order a ploughman's, crusty and sweet, which to all intents and a purpose is 'right up my street'
I walk another mile in the day of many where any if few ever knew me or waved as I passed and at last when the Sun starts to shrink, I start to think of androgyny
which follows me.
then I sing,
androgyny, why is it you follow me, is this why I'm falling through these words that I write for you,
destiny, what music you play for me, is this an affinity with a word that is killing me.
Mother tells me to wash behind my ears before tea, I chew on a piece of toothpaste to rid my breath of the smell and taste of beer, it's
all very queer where I live.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 4:18 AM UTC
Alfred
Alfred, the pianist who is also my father
although he denies the paternity vehemently,
was in Hawaii and played the ukulele with
little success and went back to Europe.
Alfred the pianist and also my father, could
get the sweetest tones when he played and
women swooned in other men’s arms,
was when not playing of a rather sullen nature
he spent the day walking around town with
alpaca jacket end French bonnet, he looked ever
artistic and I followed him around; once when I fell
a bollard got in the way; he did help me up
and said; I'm not your father!
Alfred, the pianist and also my father, got to be
ninety-two and in the last years of his life was glad
to have a son even if it was a fake one as Alfred
was fond of pointing out
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 4:58 AM UTC