knitted on a dodgy bobble hat
or a favourite chunky jumper
from scandanavia, or yorkshire

untasteful but definitely practical..
smelly and friendly like a wet dog
pliable like warm playdoh...

patulioi oil
will always remind me of you...
'a hippy place in my heart...'
like a beachnut,
no, a beach hut
shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society,
flip flop corner...

19:10
some random hermit crab making his escape from
the dripping bundle of just found fishing net
down through the crack in the floor...
into the sand
and back to the sea.
the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf
because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses.

suncracked and faded
pieces of
70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner
between the scraps of rope
and the deflated inflatables
and the bottlecap damian hurst
next to sea purse corner,
biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks
who escaped from the pacific gyre...

panning around, the smartphone registers,
the garish tatty windbreak
and the 90's ghettoblaster
which still has some juice left from those batteries
we bought at the gift shop...
last year...
for our imaginary beach hut....
in the outer hebrides...?

you take the camping gaz from the cupboard
and put the kettle on...
the beach is desert island white
the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard
the wind tugging relentless through our hair.
but the pub is warm and friendly
where grizzled fishermen philosophise
hardily. by the fire.
between warming shots of smokey single malt.

Mid October takes its end of season's leap
into the solitude of post-tourism autumn.
The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate
the reassembly of local solidarity.

Tat and trim tucked into hibernation,
chalkboards erased,
scant takings totaled,
inflatables deflated.
Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's
'Correio de Manha'
Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed
their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle.
Sunshades collapse in deep south style,
redundant loungers relax supine.

Kids ***** back to school -
a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt
dawdles through warming scents of
post-salad indulgence,
sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada',
garlic, and  aromatic oregano
***-grown in a back plot, littered with
discarded placards and tired bikes.

Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines,
idle hands and minds with new time to fill
mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie.
Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet
squatting to gossip under a white wash
slung and pegged, stick-sure
against thin bleached facades.

Under Planes, old comrades congregate
shuffling at a make-shift table,
tired eyes set on cards,
playing for cents under a limited sky
once defined by Salazar.

Car parks thin.
Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers
scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves
gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating
the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds.




copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

With dangling shrubs for hair

Pivoting like a vulture
gleaming smiles
You skunk,

Tainting my heart with sweet nuthings,
Blowing my fears into teary inflatables.

It didn't grow,
Because it had to burst.

It burst again
And blend into muck.

I moan the past.

Those goggles
I crave
Your Soda Glasses
I raved

So
I can
Swim again
In the murky depths of our
chaotic evil

past.

Allow me to remind you,
that the sunrises are always
the most beautiful
when you are awake to see them.
Take value in those bewitching
fabrics of clutter, you wrap
your walls with.
For you are a skeleton;
empty and translucent.
There are no diamonds in your eyes
no sparks of fire when you laugh
because you are hollow bones,
marrow ****** dry.
Oh how my eyes deceived me
when we first met.
I think it was all of those
inflatables you bought me,
so I would also rest
on your surface.

I want to write a Christmas poem,
But the muse ain't in the mood;
I look outside, it seems like Spring.
I really think I'm *******.

There's not a flake of snow out there,
The sun shines in the blue;
I believe the squirrels are copulating.
I really think I'm *******.

Our geese stayed North again this year,
Our fauna's still in view;
It's hard to spot the cardinals;
I really think I'm *******.

There's lights strung round houses,
With inflatables on the lawns;
They're out of place,
Look crude and rude;
I really think I'm *******.

I'm not hearing silver bells
From sleighs running over snow;
It's a wonder we call this winter,
In Ontariario.

But... the tree is up,
The gifts well-wrapped
With Love and Best Wishes too;
So, in lieu of surely being *******,
This verse will have to do.

Metal strewn about...
Fires of jet fuel reek the air...
Intermittent
A shoe
Seat 12A
Tray table
Heat from fuel pit
Raging
Zombies walking about
Dazed
Survivors
Smeared with black
Seats 17C & 24B
Still strapped in
Just torsos
&
A tie
Fuselage
Upside down
Body part unidentifiable
Papers
Came down in cornfield
Scorched earth
Yellow inflatables strewn
Crumpled
Caved in
Inferno
Sunlight peeking thru...
5,000 pieces
How could anybody survive this?

The Captain's ball
The Trophy5
The spheres of childhood
Now not alive
It isn't wise
Not at this juncture
To mount space hoppers
That have slow punctures.

"Begum" ("3") "Alas" in July and Grace
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