Sigh! It's so boring! Life's but a loop
Wish I could run with a circus troupe
Or maybe join a rock climbing group
Why doesn't 'coup' sound exactly like 'coop'
'Coop' rhymes with 'soup' which is 'coup' with an 'S'
I'm late, in hot soup! What a mess!

Work...work... Gotta get to work. I'm late
Aww man...did you really have to lock the gate??
Splendid, terrific, this is just great!
Who the heck puked on this floor made of slate

I'm out and it's pouring now. The rain will wash it away
Sh*t! It's pouring and I'm stranded, no brolly. Yay...!

Stranded...thank goodness I have music
Choose shuffle and then click
Through my plugs, stream out N'Sync
I know... I know... I know what you must think

I think I have to think of something
Take shelter for now is what I'm thinking

Or maybe I should call in sick
No...no... It's the last day of the week
A taxi! A taxi I should seek!

A taxi would quicken my pace
If I can get one in the first place
If only I hadn't sold... I still had my bike
My head wouldn't potentially be on a pike

Miss my bike, her knobby tyres, she was my Winona Ryder
Sensuous and sleek, my Yamaha with jet black fender
Ride a bike, must wear shoes. Much safer

Love my shoes, I own more than a dozen
Nails need trimm... Oh look! A ******* raven!

No... a crow... Well, some bird stranded like me
Can't fly on wet feathers seeking refuge under a tree

Wait a second! Where was I?
Oh nails! Trimming tonight, I must try
Clean fingernails, everyone likes
***! I'm still stranded! Yikes!

Brave the rain, walk briskly, no time to waste
Move quickly, go on...make haste!

Care not for getting wet
Go now! Ready...get set...
Awgh! Didn't zip up my bag
This just adds on to my lag

ZIPP!
TRIP!
Tripped over a stone
No one saw, luckily I'm alone!

Gee... I have 21 bags, perhaps too many for a guy
Must go jogging tonight, next week or maybe next July
Oh shoot, shoelace's undone...now I've got to tie
Text message in on my phone, volume set on high

Work just texted, asking so many questions
Among which - "Have you submitted last week's requisitions?"
Why do we text when we can talk
People don't meet anymore, on Facebook they rock

Hmm beginning to hate Facebook but I still do check
Woohoo! Found a coin by the grass verged track
Oh ten cents, well it's still money
I'll save it, it'll come in handy
Perfect! Now I'm wet
Because of the coin I tried to get

Hmm...where was I again?
Gosh my mind's like a derailed train
One of those days I guess I'll remain...
A...

          S CA  TTE  RB RA  I    N

.

Rainy day people and frogs
Packed New York streets, mossy bogs
Umbrella or bumbershoot
In quagmire and crowded route
Splashing masses, polliwogs

Precipitation, cascade
The alley or everglade
Plebeians and ***** toads
Wetlands, winding back roads
Holding brolly or sunshade

Mobs, croaker in the wallow
Soggy marsh, bypass below
A sprinkle, pitter-patter
Parasol, doesn't matter
Your bullfrog and average Joe

Here it comes,
what we weren’t expecting.
Thankfully you have one with you
so you fish it out
before the drizzle
becomes a downpour,
press the button
and watch it pop open
like an airbag,
the spindly blue tent
to protect us
from the wet.

We huddle together
as marshmallows in a bag,
as fruit in a bowl,
listen to the spattering,
the clattering of stuff
from the sky,
rounds of applause
dropping off the edge
onto sand.

I hope it stops soon.
     Yeah, me too, me too.
You grab my dry hand
as we shuffle closer,
only able to hear the rush
of the rain.

It doesn't take much, for me to be late in the morning
A bad nights sleep, another day at work, it can be oh so boring
20 minutes, does it really matter, in the grand scheme of things
Jump in the car, radio on,
Same DJ with the X-Factor wannabes wearing their bling
Its a short trip but can still be delayed once more
Further down the road by a woman who makes my head sore....

Hitting the roundabout 2 miles from anywhere
The traffic backs up to give us all a timely scare
What on Earth could delay us on this trip to a place of ethical sanction
As without work our lives would halt without function
Bills to pay and food to buy, we need the income from some money tree
What is holding me up as already late,
Maybe set my alarm earlier but hey, what will be will be
The slow jaunt on the bumper to bumper ride
Its only 10 minutes more but time is not on my side.....

And there she is,
My delay
Luminous in stature holding the road like shes some traffic God
Chatting away to the ladies as if she's PC Plod
Holding that lollipop on her black and yellow stick
She's really starting to get on my wick
Some of us have places to be old lady like she even cares
Kids crossing the road, go play Chicken, like they'd even dare
Really, all in all, she is doing a good job
And there's me rushing and acting like a bit of a......wally!
As if I did knock a child over I'd forever be sorry
Even when it rains she puts up her brolly
Stop the parent and kids from always getting wet
I suppose in the end she is the safer bet
Maybe I will always be late but nothing I can't sort with a brew,
Instead of getting,

Lollipop Lady Blues

JJB

THE MIND MAKER UPPER

The lift opened
on the 13th floor.

Which was....unusual
as there was

- no 13th floor.

I stepped out onto
nothing.

Stood there like Wily Coyote
in a Road Runner cartoon.

"This is a bit Narnia-ish..!"
I remember thinking to myself.

But when I cease to be
mystified and stopped

demanding explanations
I discovered to my horror

'Skegness-in-Winter'
congealing all about me.

"So..." smirked 'Skegness-in-Winter'
"I see we meet again!"

as if this was a surreal 'This is your Life'
yet at the same time so real.

I decided to go with the flow
whatever the moment threw up.

"Yeah, Time..." I said gnomically
"...is a funny thing."

We chit-chatted for an hour or so
about how we both thought the other dead.

How things were back then and
despite our out of season existence

there was always
the kisses.

Now that 'Skegness-in-Winter'
had succeeded in seducing me

it all came flooding back
"Ahhh those Skegness kisses!"

"They still..." I had to admit it
warm the cockles of this

Irish heart
och mo chroi!"

A little old lady appeared
from nowhere with a large handbag

poking me with
her broken brolly.

"Up or down...up or down!"
she kept squawking.

"Up or down....make up
your mind!"

But I was still lost
in those out of season

Skegness
kisses.

A plastic bag without a handle
A pair of straps without a sandal
A briefcase with rusted locks
A pair of old worn out socks
A never used candelabrum
An empty jar of finished gum
A broken door iron cage
A lost book’s tattered page
A piece of cloth insect holed
An old calendar neatly rolled
A fluorescent light long dead
A clay puppet’s broken head
A fountain pen sans its cap
An old atlas dusty map
A bunch of cassette in tin box
Nails and screws unused locks
Cable tape wire and plug
Grandpa’s brolly faded rug

Can’t disown throw them out

Fond attachments without doubt!

He’d go to the Square each afternoon
And sit on a bench, near me,
The one that stood in the shaded gloom
Of a brooding maple tree,
He’d roll his brolly and doff his hat
And scatter his bits of bread,
Then when the Keeper would tut, he’d say,
‘The Starlings have to be fed!’

He’d watch them come in a darkening cloud
And scare the sparrows away,
Then sit and listen to what had risen
At this loose end of the day.
He’d sit and nod, and he’d take it in
As if he could understand,
This Starling patter that passed as chatter
Concerning the world of man.

I never once saw him take a note
Or even record the sound,
He didn’t acknowledge the presence there
Of anyone else around,
He totally focussed on what they’d say
And **** his ear to their cries,
Then nod and smile in the strangest way
And shake his head at their lies.

Then after dark he would walk the park
And head for the studio,
That one dim lamp on the outer wall
Would show him the way to go,
And once inside you would hear him slide
On up to the microphone,
Where he’d tell his tales of success and fails
In a drawn-out monotone.

But you never felt a part of the tale
You were always shut outside,
Peering in from a ledge or bin
With a window open wide,
Then sometimes you were looking down
On the action from on high,
It could be from the bough of a tree
Or a wing in the azure sky.

He must have muttered a thousand tales
Of brooding, joy and despair,
The type of roles that would feed the souls
Of the folk who listened there.
They were light as vim, they were dark and grim
They were sown like seeds in the night,
And at the end, a beating of wings
As a bevy of birds took flight.

He entertains through the winter months
With a new tale every eve,
But stops as soon as the Spring comes in,
As the Starlings begin to leave.
They all return to their northern climes
With their tales to their Viking den,
While he will wait on the same park bench
For the winter to come again.

David Lewis Paget

Yesterday I went out walking;
I went out walking in the rain,
Apologised to my brolly
"I won't be needing you today"

I felt each and every rain drop
Fall, slowly trickling down my face
And it seemed each drop that landed
Was there to wash away my pain.

The hair on my head was curling
And all my clothes were wet right through
But my legs just kept on walking
Until my mind felt fresh and new...

I know the rain hasn't changed things,
That my life is still much the same
But my worries had a cleansing;
The purest smile broke through that day

I was reminded that life is
Full of beauty with skies so blue,
And although at times we're tested
Life's packed full of good things too!




© Karen L Hamilton, 2015

I'm going walkabout
It's time to get away to the outback.
I've been here for years.
It feels like I'm seeping into the seams
of the stitching of yesterday's dreams
And I've got to go.

No one will notice,no one will know
If I don't turn up for the show they'll just think that I passed.
My turn has come to get on the road and to run as fast as I can.
You can't catch this man he's to quick.
Tied to the past though I maybe
I am no baby when it comes to a race
I set the pace
And I'm off.

Walkabout
Talk about a jape
This jackanapes is making his track
And he ain't looking back.
I am gone as soon as the sun makes a face
In the morning this place will be history.
That's me.
Gone in a flash.
Now I must dash off and pack my walkabout sack
With a brolly and boots,two suits and a pair of old jeans.
That seems about right.
This time tomorrow night
I'll be far away.

Meet me for coffee
At the corner of 29th Avenue
On a sunny summers day
Some time in June
2020

Meet me
Next to the fountain in Trafalgar Square
It will be a frosty
New Year's Eve
2021

Meet me
Just past the junction
Junction 21
Not sure where it's near to
But I need to follow the M4 to get there
I'll be driving a red Morris minor
2pm
2022

Meet me
At the end of my street
You should know where to find me
If you've kept all the above dates that is
It could be raining
Bring a brolly
12 noon
April 2023


Meet me
Come celebrate my birthday
Its cold outside so wear a warm coat
Don't be late
I've missed you like crazy
12 Feb
2024

i saw little snail walking down the path
in the pouring rain i began to laugh
he had an umberella with colors very bright
it looked very funny and filled me with delight
he just made me giggle walking very slow
walking in the rain umberella all aglow
then rain it stopped his brolly put away
i think about the snail every single day

the cat inhabits the kitchen chair
  glibly being   a warm and spread pat
as my seat is taken      i am stood
  weight shifting   between pained legs
    taking in my breakfast   like medicine
chumming it down
  addressing none of its flavours or ‘mouthfeel’

a man passes the window
uncreased  in a deceased business suit
yet   bunched into himself under a brolly

it's not raining
      but   it was  most-likely  forecast on his cellphone

strange human behaviour…

i note my own
and remove the somnolent cat
to take my seat at the table

Sorry Mr Jolly, I don't think your quite that frail
I offered my assistance, but now I'll have to bail
Your requirements are beyond me, a wash from top to tail !
My qualifications do not extend, to care for an older male

Who normally does your personals, why can't you get a bath ?
Official carers they just leave, and you can't get the staff
Does Mr Jolly scare them off, before they grace his path
Or maybe your too vulnerable, when you expose your bottom half ?

Sorry Mr Jolly, if your really all that smelly
I wouldn't be that comfortable, if I just washed your belly
Regardless of all other things, I'll stay home with the telly
And I'll see you in Psychoville, alongside Mr Jelly

Community spirit's one thing, but I'm afraid it must be trashed
Those parts of old men's body's, in my presence should be stashed
Mr Jolly I am sorry, if your washing dreams are dashed
I didn't really fancy, any part where I get splashed

Sorry Mr Jolly, can I give you a small tip
Emergency numbers aren't for you, to have a bath or strip
Scrub ups are not possible, and a shaving I must skip
Hygienic services I can't provide, cos I'm not well equip

Who said that I'd do anything, I think their just a wally
Old mens plonkers can't be handled, by a young blonde dolly
I wouldn't even try it, covered with an open brolly
What your asking I can't do, I'm Sorry Mr Jolly

Much too early for the hurly burly of the morning crowd,
If I could cotton wool my ears, put blinkers on my eyes, find a seat in the corner
I might not despise, not that I
do, this jolly handbag brolly crew.

What I have to do to earn a crust, we all must, but I really, really want to shout quite loud, get outa my face, I want to run from the crowd and where would I run?

It's this city,
full of oh so pretty things
shiny,
buy me
take home and try me things.

This city clips your wings
nobody whistles
nobody sings
no one has time for the
simple things.

The things I have to do I must.
I must have things to do or die before
I'm due or try before I buy and take another fall and break my neck.

Velvet box with nothing in.
A saffron hat without a pin.
Pair of shoes that want to win.
An umbrella that turns inside out.
Caught by a gale.
Scream and shouts at broken brolly.
Woman in high heels looks like a dolly.
Way she's walking, looks like a wally.
Irritating like a spot.
A spot that's becoming an irate boil.
Wants your fella.
The poet can tell you.
And she's going to tell her.
Not a chance unless hell freezes over.
No way in hell is she losing her lover.
(c)Livvi

He sat at the railway station in
The hopes of a passing train,
There hadn’t been one for hours, while he
Was sheltering from the rain,
While over the opposite platform, sat
And sprawled on a wooden bench,
A sight to gladden a jaundiced eye,
A typical old-time *****.

For wenches were few and far between
In that post-industrial time,
As everyone wore both slacks and jeans,
And nothing to tease the mind,
But not this ***** on the wooden bench
For she wore a floral dress,
A petticoat that was made of rope
That rose to her knees, no less.

And could those have been real stockings like
They’d been when he was a lad,
With straightened seams to the land of dreams
From calf to the thigh, well clad,
It put him in mind of the garter belts
That she’d have to wear, no doubt,
He’d seen in his teenage magazines
When he was a gadabout.

She rose and walked up the platform and
She gave her brolly a whirl,
And then he noticed her bodice with
Its buttons, mother of pearl,
Her hair was combed in a bouffant, piled
Up high in an auburn wave,
And dangling from her delicate ears
Were miniature rings of jade.

Two trains pulled into the station,
One each side and they climbed aboard,
Their windows were facing each other,
He faced back, while she faced forward,
Then just for a moment he smiled at her
And she smiled back from her bench,
As he muttered to her six silent words:
‘By God! You’re a beautiful *****!’

David Lewis Paget

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.


Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known  even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only  made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust
  
& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye ******* Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding.

It was raining when I met her.
A sure sign.
I ignored it.
Many a love story started in the rain.
We headed into the restaurant.
She throttled her brolly, drenching me in the process.
I ignored it, my white suit didn’t.
She perused the menu.
I suggested drinks.
Yes, plain water is so invigorating.
If you’re in the Sahara desert, it sure is.
Another sign.
The vegan menu was excellent, she said.
The 16 ounce steak with animal still attached wasn’t, seemingly.
We talked about the benefits of a vegan diet. She talked about the benefits of a vegan diet.
I saw her roasting over a well lit spit with an apple in her mouth.
Another sign.
I played carrots on the plate game.
She grew her own potatoes, she said.
My eyes lit up at the thought of her having a little plot. Or maybe the thought of her in the plot. That was cruel. Just because she has a passion for something, there’s no need to be negative about it. Just eat the **** meal, the benefits will come later.
I am going to stay celibate till the right man comes along.
Okay so the benefits may take awhile, a lifetime by the looks of it.
Think of something interesting to say. Do you think Jesus, had he been on the farm. Do you think he would have fed the five thousand bread and steak.
I am a bit of a theologian myself, let me explain.
Christ, now I've opened a can of worms. A can of worms in sauce, how good does that sound. Maybe if I prayed hard, the uncelibacy god would whack her over the head.
How do you feel about *** before marriage, she said.
I think it’s a great idea. Okay her eyes are bulging out her head. Actually I think if a couple loved each other, they would wait. Okay, eyes back in head.
I totally agree, I think once the baby is conceived, there’s no need for ***. Don’t you agree.
Okay, carrots and peas, no ***, she definitely won’t have a telly, so that’s foreplay out the window. Yes I agree. How many kids are you thinking of having.
I was thinking about six.
Christ, we’ll be called the fruit and veg family. Right, desperate times call for desperate measures.
Wish I hadn’t got that vasectomy now.
What.
I’ve had the snip.
You have committed the greatest sin ever. I thought when I met you there was a sign hanging over you. I’ll have to go, I really need to get to confessional, unburden myself.
Would you like me to join you.
No, you are past redemption.
That’s a shame. I really felt the signs were looking good.

Spot deals,market steals and the poor man feels the pinch,
we ought to lynch the lot of them,
those jolly brolly grinning swagmen.
The bank brigade with brown suede shoes use your cash,lose,and then cut a dash or cut and run
it's no wonder that we think they're ****.
I never won at monopoly which is what I see when I look at them,the hotel,motel,tell us all to go to hell men,
**** them.
I'll bury my pile in the ground,sod the compound interest rate,you can kiss my **** or wait and see when monopoly crashes what will be.
weeping and wailing? they need ****** jailing and we need our heads looking at,at that.
****** the lot of them and ***** to the brollymen and tell me when the cashier comes to say,
'there's no credit in your account,maybe later today'
and that's futures trading,more ****** raiding of the shilling,too ****** willing to rob and to steal and another spot deal hits the mark.

I learned in school but what a pity
Forgot raindrops fall with constant velocity
It's not by chance but a matter of balance
Betwixt the weight of the falling drop
And sum of the buyoant force and friction of air.

But to be very fair I really don't bother
And when there's smell of rain in the air
Without thinking about laws of motion
I take a brolly or any other precaution
Yet I feel it a joyous achievement
When I lay my head bare to the firmament
So they pour and drench me every bit
Dollops of raindrops cool and sweet
Can't be defined in words the wellness I feel
When over me from the tree the drops spill.

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known  even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only  made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust
  
& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye fu&*%ing Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding.

Contra* William Carlos Williams

The only realism in art is of the imagination.  It is only thus that the work escapes plagiarism after nature and becomes a creation.

                              -Spring and All, p. 35

A leaf sometimes might seem to be a bee
Afloat upon the humming summer air
The tiny tree-ness of some greater Tree
Or brolly of a fairy-lady fair

A leaf may be presented as a shield
In chlorophyllic marching order trimmed
Its veins as dents received upon the field
The eye of each woody cell dying and dimmed

But even so

In this, inter-warriors, come not to grief
For in the end, a leaf is still a leaf

Feast of the Epiphany

Grey days recede into dreary, drizzling dusks
Baptismal rains across the windows slip
And even the candlelight is not proof
Against the gathering gloom of heartfall

Shakespeare leans uncertainly on the shelf
And agonizes over his writer’s block
Milton is writing yet another tract
On faith while smoking Players cigarettes

Warnie and Jack are out for a brisk walk
And Tollers is busy correcting proofs
Under a yellow puddle of lamplight
Bleak Spenser in his grief Kilcolman weeps

We all hold castles abandoned and burnt
Friendships grown mouldy, squabbles unresolved
Walks not taken, rough drafts uncorrected
Pipes gone quite out, cups of tea gotten cold

Has it been that long since I saw you last?
Come in; I’ll put the kettle on for tea
Just leave your coat and brolly by the door
Come sit by the fire; come, and talk with me

The Umbrella

It was a rainy sort
Of afternoon, when I crossed
The bridge didn't notice
Half it was missing.
Held on to my brolly when I fell
Parachuted landed on a barge.
They needed a deckhand.

The sea was a black mirror, the cook
Was artistic and ****** we only had
Bacon butties that day
I gave the collapsible canopy to the first mate
It was green and covered
In seagull droppings

No brolly
and all that keeps coming
is the rain
standing on the tracks
and begging for the train

life and love has failed
to render my heart
started
to hell with
the dear departed

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust

& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye ******* Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding

A crow did to blackened. Sky's Persue ,
one Crimson thought  in paradise tell .
and flew away past my window without a thought for me .

A sparrow found its rest on a stag at Bushy park ,
as many followed still would not give its heart to me .

And lurid sky's of Ophelia behind a shrouded sun ,
Looked down on Churchills statue .
Who himself a tear did pass as the Crystal Palace To clouded wreath filled. heavens ,
Where glass and iron met with crackling and bangs and billowing smoke
belong, before the Luftwaffe would ever darken England's skys. Of blue .
And so it's Ash from Forign fields and deserts belong ,
To land in England's pasture and turned our sky's to orange and
Red , .
And in those crystal hues. deny to wake in your dreams ,
Or leave a key in your door you had never forgotten before ,
Or go to a shop and wonder why you went ?
Or leave your brolly on the train as you come in from the rain ,?
For in your dreams a train may wait ,
inside. a staircase with white washed lime walls , a Theatre where your greatest performance
Awaits .







.

i went out in the pouring rain
forgot my brolley once again
the rain was splashing in my face
getting faster gathering pace

i put my hands upon my head
but down my sleeves it went instead
then i stood beneath a tree
but the rain still dripped on me

so i walked home so very wet
because of the brolley i did forget

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                    We Love our Geriatric ****** Mysteries

We love our geriatric ****** mysteries:
Father Brown with his parcels and brolly
Columbo and his rambling histories
Inspector Barnaby and Troy, by golly

Jessica Fletcher writing novels Down East
Good Doctor Sloan solving crime on the beach
Ben Matlock who thinks hot dogs are a feast
Poirot and Miss Marple, teacups in reach

Typewriters, file folders, and telephones
And hidden behind a wall –
                                              the victim’s bones!

I ain't no runaway from some American bank job
Nor no fisherman famous for his cod
Caught in his Cornish trawler with just nets and no rod
Rumour was I had I'd slept with over a thousand little birds
All making me breakfast in the morning with a slice of lemon curd
But seriously man, I'm just some gimp who's always been a nerd
From books of Harry Potter to even Where's Wally?
A shop for one in Tesco with a half filled trolley
Quick dash to the car on my own, such rain without my brolly
I'm happy living on my own without all your baggage
Holiday for one, a lighter plane to fill, without your **** luggage
With such weight lost, no cakes or thrills, soup just made of cabbage
Tuning my senses for a day without your pain
Its a hard long slog of which we have to sadly retrain
But a belonging I must one day regain
#JustMe

JJB

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust

& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye f**king Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding.