"mackintosh" poems
The bright sun’s rays
Are dappled as they strike
The manicured greensward.
He, tall, lithe, teeth all aglow
In cream slacks and pastel blouson,
She, fair and fairylike in acres of shimmering gauze,
Alight from the auto
At the site of their ‘manger al fresco’
Let us call them Justin and Jocelyn.
The basket is heavy
No matter.
He lifts it clear to carry
She gasps, he grins.
In minutes the scene is set
The rug, the plates, the glasses
The pate, the cold chicken,
The fruit….the wine.
He deflowers a bottle of Moselle,
Wishing it were her.
Guessing as much she blushes.
Ants retreat to nests
Wasps attack alternate targets
Flies zoom elsewhere to feed.
And all the while the sun
The golden sun continues to dapple.
The rain is not quite horizontal
As Joe and Judy
Run from the bus stop
To the stony beach.
Not quite horizontal
But driven off the sea it tastes salty.
He, ordinary, average, in a dampening grey mackintosh.
She, hair bleached in a sister’s frock and jacket
Holding hands,
And hold each a sandwich
Cellophane wrapped.
Squatting against the seawall
They eat.
Wet eyes flash bright signals.
Joe has a small thermos
Its vegetable soup,
And somehow a hardboiled egg appears,
To share.
The rain continues its attack.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
Naked pink and ebony feet
brush the slimy grass filled path
Through the tea fields elephants retreat
After a night of jaded mud bath
Armored with sack and gunny weight
Enter the frost covered fields in drowsy rest
Wake up the greens to a gentle fright
And pluck under care of enchanting *******
The supervisor mackintosh
Walking with a bend and a toss
Shout at those Cinderellas
Who look for shoes and umbrellas
Even before its time to knock off
The tin covered temple of olfactory auditory deity,
the holy Garden tea
The chanting enchanting to a coma hot mesmerizing wafts of aroma
fills the air, capture the sense of all devotees who belong to the Orthodox commune TEA or CTC.
The sirens bugle the devotees into fits
They come in shifts for worship.
The tender hearts freshly plucked before they attain mature Tea
Spread to wither under a hell
of a hot air with care.
crushed and torn and curled,
the souls are put into a purgatory rotary drum to pause to meditate
on the ephemeral color change
To cover the green with copper red
Garment to ferment before being sent
to the fluid fire dance
To attire in black and retire
in packages
for a last plunge in to a boiling cauldron
The finale
Endgame
A sacramental service,
a self sacrifice to energize the tired souls
In cups of tea..
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
I do not like olives.
They are the only food
I have been unable to educate myself into.
Just one food,
Most people have more,
But I will eat anything
Rather than an olive,
I'd rather gobble down a rotten egg.
I want to like them.
When the waiter brings a little bowl,
Balsamic, bread and oil,
I sigh and let the wistfulness kick in.
They are so civilised,
So summery,
I feel I'm missing out -
- But I just can't -
They taste like mackintosh,
Or shower gel,
Or toothpaste gone wrong.
I feel sorry for the olives,
Offering a holiday vibe,
A Mediterranean ambience,
And meeting revulsion, rejection,
(Juddery shuddering).
Perhaps I am making too much of this,
No-one can like everything,
They will never know.
Perhaps I am someone's olive aversion.
Perhaps they are
(Juddery shuddering)
At the thought of me, right now.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
Can't believe what I'm seeing,
All the flames and smoke,
Sparks ignite expanding foam,
Skyline begins to choke,
Smoke is seen from miles around,
Drifts across the M8 motorway,
Drifting down Renfrew Street,
Students stand and pray,
Students were getting ready,
Their talent ready to show
The fire put a stop to that,
Some talent just won't show,
Built by Rennie Mackintosh,
In the Art Nouveau design,
A building of world renown,
Some think of it a shrine,
Building damage wasn't too bad,
Fire and Rescue saved most,
Student's art and Rennie's art,
Didn't end up like burnt toast.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
An old florist, dressed in black
Hands a white rose to a guy.
While the beggar pets a stray..
A bicycle falls by.
It’s the westerly winds again...
Rain peeking through the sunless sky…
Though everything is getting moist around..
It’s my heart that’s running dry..
There’ goes the artist’s beret
And the lil girl’s pink umbrella..
A child pays a sixpence..
To the friendly pretzel fella..
The street lamp winks
While it listens to the accordion..
Lovers falling in love again…
While I wait for my old companion
The sea isn’t getting any wetter with the rain…
Though my hands are getting wrinkled and white…
Then the same old man in his mackintosh..
Comes into my old ,weary sight..
We just saw, gave a reserved smile..
Then I cursed the different ways I chose…
Yet he melted all my regrets…
And held out that white rose…
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 5:44 AM UTC
She did not look burly from across the vast room
A crowd of thousands, but her blood stained blazer shined against the fixtures
An easy catch for the looking eye,
But deeper than the red that rolled off her shoulders
That waterfall flooded her chest and biceps
Not a crease nor a dent, a flawless exterior for a woman
To hide a healing girl
Tens of golden bands hugged her skinny fingers
Though she kept her left finger a clean slate
An offering? An assertion? A statement.
Left for the interpretation of ones not looking hard enough
Golden links swung back and forth across her chest as she swayed to the music
Weighed boldly by the sign of a higher presence
A facade to be accepted, not a belief condemning her sins
She pushed forth her sins just below the surface of recognition
Her eyes mirrored the soil far beneath her feet
Deep, leading straight to Earth's core, her core
The sole insight to her cry to be loved and not someone's lust
She built a fortress with those crimson walls
So the softness within could take a breath
A break short lived as it was approached by a harsh wave of blush
When she longed for the hidden intensity across the vast room
A woman draped in a deeper blue than the oceans they were yet to sail
Whose water could wash away blood stains
And expose a red louder than mackintosh, sweeter than red delicious
Those crimson then walls began to fade
Into a woman worth knowing what's hidden behind her walls
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 5:58 PM UTC
Dom Higgs came to the room
and spoke to me
of the monastic life
it was late evening
and the shutters were closed
so no moon no stars,
est forma mortis he said,
moon glow by bell-tower
especially after Compline
and the haunting looking cloister,
and she said her husband
wouldn't be home for hours
and there was time for it
so we did,
the French peasant monk
peeled onions
in the kitchen
peler sous l'eau he said,
I cut the grass
around the gravestones
of the monks
and flattened out
molehills before
the hour of Sext,
flying from the pains of hell
we desire
to reach life everlasting
Benedict said,
Hölle ist hier
the German monk said
pointing to his chest
with his thick finger,
Hugh made the chair
in the guest house
I saw it there
after he told me
he was no Charles Mackintosh
but it served it's purpose,
sancta Maris audi nos
Dom Peter whispered
in the cloister while waiting
to enter the church for Vespers
his voice thick as treacle
but pure as soft snow,
she undressed for me
with the skill of a *****
I a youth unravelling
the apple as Adam had,
Dom Charles sat
in the refectory at supper
his face still as a china doll
his eyes stern
and unblinking maybe
God-ward thinking,
Dio è con noi
the Italian monk said
as he showed me
how to sharpen the scythe
his hands powerful
fingers gripping the stone,
non veniam sine poenitentia,
the ultimate value of life
depends upon awareness
and the power
of contemplation
rather than upon
mere survival
Gareth said
quoting Aristotle
as we sat in the novice room
after Terce,
stars above me
moon bright as ghostly ship
I walked the drive way
letting curses let slip.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
comfort rain keeps all under-
shelter- umbrellas
in doorways mackintosh coats-
holding newspaper hats-
and rushing for home
to sit by the fire and warm up bones
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
That late hour after school
When all is mellow and gentle
The quiet light licks the sides of things
Making pale shadows as we begin.
Unroll the mackintosh and onto
The ground put out our frugal
Tea that we may eat after
Climbing the trees.
For these times are long past
But to see all the leaves
And stones in the dry earth
And feel that warmth of you
Our mum and the courage
She had. For that walk
Was not an easy trek when tired
And your eyes only wanting
A sigh as we both played
It was such as is given
By a poor man.
Love Mary
Love Mary x
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 12:39 PM UTC