"plaits" poems
Only the eyes remain as they were.
The rest of her face is ravaged
by acid. Acid thrown by two
boys on a cycle. Just
another dare.
She combs her long hair carefully. Plaits it
neatly away from her face. No curtain of hair
to hide behind. Puts a bindi in the battleground
of keloids, scars and uncooked skin. She wears
them well.
The boys genuflect in a temple, mothers kissing
saffron kerchief covered heads
before they gel their hair
and go on another prowl. This is what
men do, you see.
Lakshmi puts another layer
of cream on her burns and then stands
behind a beauty counter selling bindis
and lipsticks to girls with unblemished faces,
like their eyes. Like her eyes.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 4:32 AM UTC
A boy in jeans,
A boy in trousers,
A boy in braces,
A boy in blouses,
A girl who smells like summer sweat,
A girl whose makeup hasn’t set,
A boy who swears,
A boy who doesn’t,
A girl’s shoulder,
A second cousin,
A girl who smells of **** and beer,
A tattooed boy with a silver sneer,
A skinny girl who’s got T.B,
A boy who daintily sips his tea,
A girl’s left leg – bare or stockinged,
A boy so cold his knees are knocking,
A nasty ****
A suede-head killer,
Kate Moss,
Sienna Miller,
Vivienne Westwood’s crazy teeth,
Bow-legged loons on Hampstead Heath,
Blue eyes, brown eyes, grey eyes, green,
Cold eyes, big eyes, sad eyes, mean,
Darling sweethearts in flirty skirts,
City-Boy ******** in well-pressed shirts,
Elbows, throat, wrists, knees,
A consumptive girl’s chainsmoking wheeze,
Blonde girls with their hair in plaits,
Skinny boys, short boys, muscular, fat –
Girls with pink lipstick like strawberry frosting,
I’m telling you man,
It’s ******* exhausting.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
She was an ordinary girl.
Plaits beside a waistline she drew on with ribbon,
Fastening her thoughts she'd sworn to keep hidden.
Behind closed doors she would loosen the noose
Man tied up before her,
And bind up her lover
The milkman's daughter.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
When I was three
And my mother brushed my hair
She parted it carefully
And braided it equally.
Two fat plaits
Hung as even as my stare.
When I was nine
And the hairbrush was my foe
Wild curls entwined
Personality defined.
Hair tangling
Faster than it could grow.
When I was fifteen
And hair hit the salon floor
I just wanted to be seen
So dyed it pink, blue and green.
Hair chopped short
Little girl no more.
Now I'm twenty-three
No longer in the nest
My parting is messy
And my braids escapee.
A hairy reminder
That mother knows best.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
THEY have painted and sung
the women washing their hair,
and the plaits and strands in the sun,
and the golden combs
and the combs of elephant tusks
and the combs of buffalo horn and hoof.
The sun has been good to women,
drying their heads of hair
as they stooped and shook their shoulders
and framed their faces with copper
and framed their eyes with dusk or chestnut.
The rain has been good to women.
If the rain should forget,
if the rain left off for a year-
the heads of women would wither,
the copper, the dusk and chestnuts, go.
They have painted and sung
the women washing their hair-
reckon the sun and rain in, too.
2.9k
Sundown in Onyx
Warning This Poem is rated Mature and may contain material unsuitable for readers under 18.
Ask if we are far along enough
now
for a close up,
when my eyes are closed
it's my heart that answers
in body movements.
So does it really matter
from whence the wind comes
who tags along with strings
and violins as long as it brings
him to me
gently.
and gently he would come,
opens me as
soft as petals,
prying inside, branded,
as hot as a red iron
with his blushing in me.
brushing of cheeks,
in plaits of winter twine
and in my mind ,
I could not stop this soul
song from happening.
takes me into it's web of desire, and
cradles me there wet and unfolding
as a flower that
blooms in the dark dew
of June nights and gold leaves.
grasp my lower jaw and force
apart my lips, open my mouth ,
and check for teeth ,
examining the inner walls
filled with the width of the world
in subconscious whispers
slowly exploring the fit within reach.
love this body that calls for a raven
shameless and craven,
thoughts of him
black as onyx at my neck
oval as half of eternity,
there is no space
between my heart
and where this sun goes
down.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
*some rather dark nights
seems the moon's on vacation . . .*
1.
Look, here comes courage
Dragging the moon in its teeth
While stars dapple in its tangled fleece
Go on, you!
Go and put the moon back up in the sky
Where it belongs
2.
Tenebrous nite falls on square
Yet a caged moon shines courageous slivers
Most haunting melodies
Then that dark figure appears
Trying to steal it away
With black birds flapping round him
Like a sombre halo over him
He slinks off into the welcoming shadows.
3.
Girl with long blonde plaits
sits on water-lily petal-pads
In the middle of a mild mere
Mauve moon lies tame in her still palms
But the wrong notes suddenly play out
Harmony not quite jacked up
4.
Elemental whirlpool explodes
As sceptred figures hunch in red dust
A flash of green sky
white elephants drown in shallow puddles
angels sit on the edge of blue teacups
while thoughts crisscross
and moon hops away
galaxial order pleased
*put the moon back
where it belongs
let it hang there . . .
in the sky*
S T, 20 July 2013
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC
After morning matinee
and after dinner
of sausages and mash
and baked beans
you met Helen
by the post office
at the end
of Rockingham Street
she had on
the red flowered dress
you liked
and held Battered Betty
her doll
by an arm
her hair was held
in plaits
by elastic bands
and her thick lens spectacles
were smeary where
she'd touched them
but not cleaned them
where are we going?
she asked
how about London Bridge
train station?
you said
we can watch the trains
come and go
and watch the porters
rush about with luggage
and things
she gazed at you
through her thick lens
shall I tell my mum
where we're going?
sure if you think
she'll worry
you said
be best if she knows
Helen said
don't want her to worry
where I've gone
ok
you said
and so you both
walked back
to her mother's house
and she told her mother
and her mother came out
and looked at you
and said
ok so long
as you're with Benedict
and so you walked back
along Rockingham Street
and got a bus
to London Bridge
railway station
and sat on the seats
downstairs
by the conductor
and this guy with glasses
and a thin moustache
gazed at Helen
from the seat opposite
his eyes moving over her
his gaze focusing
on her knees
where her dress ended
he licked his lips
his hands on his thighs
Helen looked away
pretending she didn't
see him looking
you stared at the man
watching his eyes
dark and deep
they say it's rude to stare
you said
the man looked at you
kids should be seen
not heard
he replied
and you're seeing a lot
you said
he muttered something
and got off
at the next stop
giving you
a hard stare
Helen said nothing
but seemed relieved
after a while you got off
the bus at the railway station
and went inside
there were crowds
of people
and the smell of steam
and bodies washed
and unwashed
and the sound of trains
getting ready to leave
and voices and shouts
of porters and rushing
and going and coming
of people
and you sat
with Helen
on a seat
on the platform
she with Battered Betty
and you with your
six-shooter in your
inside pocket ready
to get any bad cowboys
who came your way
and Helen said
why was that man
staring at me
on the bus?
just a creep
wanting a peep
you said
peep at what?
she asked
I'm not beautiful
yes you are
you said
anyway it wasn't
your beauty
he was looking at
you said
what then?
she asked
oh something
he oughtn't
you said
and a loud blast of steam
echoed around
the station
and a voice called
and a whistle blew
and you all
sat watching
Helen
and Battered Betty
and six-shooter
carrying cowboy
you.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
He said he liked her hair long:
messy and unruly against
upturned cheeks and winks.
Braided secrets running
between lilac
blooms and plaits.
He tasted of *** and berries
Short. Sweet. Sin.
He is a wisp of an
inferno eating
all the words playing
tip toe
on her bitten lips.
Winter came as a painter’s
brush dipped in blue and grey.
Secrets that taste of sleep
syrup and honey f r o z e
Drunk bees dance in
pale and grey roses.
A careless mistake came
in bruises, a stain of
an indigo sunset.
Rusty kitchen scissors snip,
snip, snipped away all
the bad, sugary tartness
eating a toothache.
Spring crept up on a
bare nape and shoulders
Her sun-baked eyes burned,
softened like butter,
maple syrup and something
harder than life.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
*** sells
and so does sadism
sold to bored housewives
and professional women
breaking through
glass ceilings.
almost mid-way through
the sixth decade of existence on terra firma
there is a lot that gnaws away like a locust
at the soft underside of consciousness.
***
everywhere.
and the trap of biology.
women illustrated like circus sideshow attractions
ride naked on horses through the grimy marketplace
of stolen and bankrupt ideas.
*** minus monosodium glutamate.
you’ll like it better if you’re
tressed with plaits of golden silk
in a turquoise dungeon.
this morning
tortured by dreams. a ********** of the mind
teasing sunlight on a blasted dais. she’s a *****
worshipped by the masses.
madison avenue
hollywood
the sound of debit cards
in the wind.
the high art
of the american landscape
is kim kardashian
naked
her ***
blotting out
the sun.
while
poets drown
silently
down in
the shadow
of that wondrous
eclipse.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
1
just a stone’s throw
from the gates to our village
is the washing place
at that secluded turn of the river
with scattered rocks
rocks some giant children of times long ago
must have played with and thrown about
as our own children
scatter sand about in the open grounds
2
and here at the washing place
here the young mother
sits on a rock
and plaits her hair
with her infant by her side;
and perhaps two women
wash and beat some clothes
and opposite, another
does her share of the work
her lower garments
rolled up to above her knees
and she wrings the clothes,
washes and wrings the clothes
And above, on the highest rock,
above on the rock lies our Village Pervert
always ready, always hiding
peeping down at the women as they work
*Oh, our Village Pervert –
what shall we do with him?*
we’ve thrown stones at him
the village kids spit at him
the men put him into the water
for over half an hour
the Village Elders have counseled him
and he has been refused food
and his parents have driven him out of home
But still he will not change
and he will be there on the rock
always eager to watch the women at work
always just a look at white flesh of an arm or leg
*Oh, what shall we do, what shall we do
with our Village Pervert?*
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
Why do you wear
your guns back to front
in the holsters?
Helen asked me
as we walked
the bomb site
by Meadow Row
I saw this cowboy
in a film
at the cinema
have his like this
and you cross
your hands over
and get your guns
isn't it slower
that way?
she asked
no it's speed that matters
not how
you wear your guns
I said
I showed her
how quick I was
and she stood bemused
clutching her doll
Battered Betty
tightly to her chest
haven't you got
caps in your guns
to make them
sound real?
she asked
no I ran out
and anyway
I can make
the sound myself
by going
BANG BANG
she jumped away
holding Battered Betty
to her chest
you could have told me
you were going
to make that loud
banging noise
Betty got frightened
I looked at her
tightly woven plaits
of hair
and thick lens glasses
and her small hands
holding the doll
sorry Betty
I said
patting the doll's head
I put the guns away
and we walked
to the New Kent Road
and along
under the railway bridge
and by the Trocadero cinema
gazing at the billboards
and small pictures
of films
being shown
you can come
with me here
on Saturday
I said
they've got
a good cowboy film
showing
haven't any money
for the cinema
Mum said
she can't afford it
Helen said
my old man'll
cough up some money
if I ask
I said
she looked at me
Mum'll let me go
if you ask her
Helen said
ok let's go
ask her now
I said
so we walked
to Helen's house
and I told her
about how I practised
drawing my guns
everyday
she looked at Betty
but whether
she was listening
to me
or not
I couldn't say.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
Helen and you
walked home from school
the long way
you wanted to show her
the man
in the pie and mash shop
cutting up eels
for jellied eels
or for the pies
how he would stand there
with his knife
and take up an eel
and holding it
firmly on a board
would cut off its head
and then proceed
to slice it up
into small pieces
and into a bucket
on the floor
and when you showed her
standing outside the shop
peering through
the window
she said
O my God
and put a hand
to her mouth
and spoke
through her hand
and added
poor eels
to end up
in someone's stomach
and the way
he cuts them up
and the pieces
still moving afterwards
and she moved away
and walked up the road
still holding a hand
over her mouth
you don't fancy
pie and mash then?
you said
not with eels in it no
she replied
through her fingers
you smiled
not funny
she said
poor little eel creatures
yes I guess it is
a bit brutal
you said
but fascinating
to watch
I don't think so
she said
taking her hand
from her mouth
you both went under
the subway of the junction
she slightly
in front of you
her two plaits of hair
bouncing
as she walked
her green raincoat
tied tight about her
you whistled
so that it echoed
along the subway
bouncing off the walls
all along
the artificial lights
giving off
a surreal sensation
how can people eat eels?
she asked
just the sight
puts me off
don't know
guess they don't think
of it being eels as such
just as something to eat
you said
you both came out
of the subway
on the other side
and walked along
the New Kent Road
by the cinema
she looking
at the billboards
through her thick lens glasses
are you sure your mum
doesn't mind
having me for tea?
she said
well we're not actually
having you for tea
we usually have
beans on toast
or jam sandwiches
she slapped your hand
you know what I mean
she said smiling
no Mum don't mind
you said
she invited you after all
I pleaded against it
but she wouldn't listen
you said smiling
Helen's face frowned
and she stood still
really?
she said
no I'm joking
you said
and she nodded her head
uncertainly
looking at you
through her glasses
I'm just kidding
you said
you touched her hand
she smiled
and you both walked on
and across the bomb site
the uneven ground
the puddles of rainwater
you your mother's son
and Helen
a lucky woman's
daughter.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
Helen's there
by the shop
her mother's
shopping list
in her hand
she views it
through her thick
lens glasses
she's not sure
of the script
what's that word
Benedict?
she asks me
says butter
I tell her
and how much?
says 1lb
o I see
Helen says
I thought it
was saying
it's better
and I thought
what's better
never mind
I tell her
how's your mum?
she's ok
though baby
cried a lot
in the night
and Mum was
walking babe
up and down
the passage
rocking in
her soft arms
and humming
quietly
Helen yaks
quite a lot
once she starts
I listen
to her words
as she speaks
and Baldy
the shop man
says to her
where's your list
Helen dear?
she gives him
the short list
of items
which he reads
as she talks
and I note
her hair is
in two plaits
neatly done
with ribbons
at the ends
and her eyes
through her thick
lens glasses
are like two
large marbles
and she says
how are you
Benedict?
I'm ok
I reply
seeing one
of myself
gazing back
in each eye.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
After history with Mr Finn
about Saxons or Vikings
or some such thing
you walked home
from school
with Helen
along St George’s Road
the afternoon traffic
hustling and bustling by
and Helen said
that Cogan boy
pulled my plaits
and called me four eyes
and said I looked
like a pug
I think you look pretty
you said
do I?
she said
yes
you replied
and don’t mind
about Cogan
you said
tapping your jacket pocket
(where you kept
your six-shooter cap gun)
he said he’d smash my face
but he never does
he’s all mouth
and short pants
you said
Helen put her arm
under yours
and squeezed it
nice of you to say
I’m pretty
she said
no one’s said that before
and she looked ahead
and you stole a glance
sideward on at her
her plaits held in place
by two rubber bands
her thick lens spectacles
which made her eyes
larger than they were
and her small nose
beneath the bridge
of the wire frame
you looked away
carrying the image of her away
storing it in your mind
and she said
my mum likes you
she said you’re not like
the other boys
around here
o
you said
thinking of her mother
large as life
pushing the big pram
squeezed into
the huge coat
nice of your mum to say
you said
she pulled your arm closer
to her
her dark blue
raincoat
against your black jacket
you sensed the six-shooter
against your ribs
thinking of Cogan
and firing a cap bang
in the back
of his head
my mum said
I can go
to the cinema
with you
on Saturday morning
matinee
Helen said
o good
you said
not caring what
the other boys might say
with her along side you
in the sixpenny seats
you in jeans
and open necked shirt
and she maybe
in that flowered
red dress
white socks
and black battered shoes
sensing her arm
on yours
as you approached
the traffic lights
at the big junction
catching a glimpse
of her smile
as you both crossed
the road
when the lights
turned green
the afternoon sky grey
rain seeming near
smelling it in the air
thinking of Helen
and of a snatched kiss
but you didn’t think so
or didn’t dare.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
Ought we to go in there?
Helen asked
as you both stood outside
the bombed out factory
off Rockingham Street
sure we should
you said
but it’s got
STAY OUT signs
on the big doors
she said
you looked at her
with her thick lens glasses
and her hair tied in plaits
nibbling her finger in anxiety
come on in
you said
nothing will happen to you
while you’re with me
she didn’t look convinced
what if someone sees us?
she asked
no one cares around here
kids are always going
on bombsites
you said
she looked around
her eyes seemingly larger
than they were
are you sure?
she said
yes now come on
and you took
her small hand
and pulled her through
a small opening
in the side
where other kids
had made an entrance
she a pulled face
on the other side
of the gate
and rubbed her arm
where a line of blood showed
look
she said
I’ve scratched myself
you dabbed at it
with a grey handkerchief
and spittle and she watched
as you cleared up
the line of blood
will it be all right?
yes
you said
it’ll be fine
and you walked on
across the yard
and into the bombed out factory by
a door hanging
on its hinges
and into the dark interior
she stood by the entrance inside
and took in the semi darkness
it’s frightening
she said
no one is here
you said
how do you know?
she asked
it’s too quiet
you said
she leaned closer to you
and grabbed your arm
what was that?
she whispered
a rat probably
what? she said
a rat
you said
let’s go out
she said
nothing will hurt you
while I’m here
and you patted
the toy gun
in the belt
of your jeans
she looked at you
then out
into the semi darkness
you walked in
and up the stone stairs
by a wall
and she followed
her breathing
becoming louder
as you walked up
once at the top
and along a landing
you came to a small office
where the door was missing
and there was a hole
in the roof where a bomb
had blown it off
as well as other parts
of the building
you stood
looking around
the room
where rain had rotted
what furniture remained
and on the floor
were books soaked
and rotting
Helen said
can we go now?
you looked up
through the hole
in the roof
and there
was the afternoon sun
and a white cloud
moving slowly across
a blue sky
and she moved
next to you
and kissed your cheek
but you didn’t know why.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
Helen sat next to you
on the flat concrete roof
of the brick walled
bomb shelter
out the front
of Banks House
after school
she lifting
and lowering her legs
against the wall
her black battered shoes
making a dull thudding noise
and you sitting dead still
watching her white socks
go up and down
and she said
mum said
I couldn’t bring
Battered Betty
because she’d given her
a wash in the bath
you took in
her thick lens glasses
catching the late
afternoon sunlight
her hair in plaits
her hands placed flat
on either side of her legs
on the concrete roof
and as she spoke
about the doll
you thought about the boys
who said she smelt
of yesterday’s dinners
or called her four eyes
but they were dumbshites
you thought
they didn’t see
the beauty of her
the way her eyes sparkled
behind the lens
or how being next to her
kind of brightened up
the day
not that you’d
tell them that
but you knew it
and they didn’t
and she said
if you close your eyes
you can imagine
we are on a ship
at sea
the grass is the sea
and you said
we could be pirates
I have a sword
my old man made
from steel
and painted blue
and she looked at you
the sunlight blanking out
her eyes and her lips
still speaking
saying things
her words shaped
like diamonds
and she closed her eyes
and so did you
and she put her hand
on yours
and in the darkness
it seemed warm
and smooth
and she said softly
you can save me
from the bad pirates
the ones with eye patches
and black scarves
and scary faces
and you said
yes I could cut them
all down and not miss
and she said
yes and I could be saved
and could give you a kiss
and the ship sailed on
in the dark
behind the eyes
in a world made wonderful
where you could be
8 year old lovers
where no one betrays
and no one dies.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
Having completed various jobs
indoors and out
such as running errands
and shopping etc
your mother gave you 2 shillings
and you went through the Square
to a shop on New Kent Road
where you bought
a small penknife
you’d seen in the window
and you showed Jimmy
whose knife collection
was large
including a bayonet
his father brought back
from WW2
but he was unimpressed
showing you in turn
a **** knife his father
took from a dead soldier
from some battle
he’d fought in
you never showed
your mother
but Helen saw it
on the way to school
next morning
and peered at it
through her thick lens spectacles
does your mother know
you bought that?
she asked
no not yet
you replied
pocketing it out of sight
maybe another day
don’t you tell
your mother everything?
she asked
no not everything
you said
I have a need to know
basis I work with
what about truth?
she asked
you gazed at her
in her dark blue raincoat
buttoned to the throat
her wavy hair
in two plaits
her eyes peering at you
through those thick lens of hers
truth is like bubble gum
you said
sometimes
you have to stretch it a bit
to get a bigger bubble
she shook her head
making her plaits move
each side of her head
I don’t want the future father
of my children to be a liar
she said
maybe he won’t
you said
you are
she replied
you looked at
the record shop window
as you went by
a picture of Elvis Presley
was in the window
smiling
don’t you like the knife?
you asked
looking back at her
as you spoke
only if you tell your mother
she said
ok I’ll show her
and tell her
after school
you said
she smiled
and her big eyes
lit up
and she pushed her arm
under yours
and squeezed you near
and all because
of the small penknife
you’d bought from the shop
through the Square
but you did love
her big bright eyes
and wavy plaited hair.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
And then went down for the bus
(while 'twas in motion)
as you'd seen your old man do
and sat at the side
as the clippie collected fares
as she went,
about 1955
year before Suez
and year after Elvis
recorded That's alright Mama
and the 7th year
of your outward voyage,
our life is a luminous halo
or so it seemed,
conscious from the beginning
unto the end or conscious
of the end of the beginning,
at the beginning
the end of life
or some such,
Mr Finn tall and thin
moustached talking
of kings and castles in class
dipping pen into the inkwell
to scribe what he'd scribed
on the blackboard,
Helen peering at you
through thick lens glasses
her brown hair
plaited in plaits
her grey pinafore
food stained,
Finn on about keeps
and drawbridges and moats
and you drew what he said
drew as your granddad
had shown you
draw from life
he had said
take from life
draw what you see,
the bus on its way
the clippie clipping tickets
a machine around her neck
or shoulder,
you thinking
I'll be one of those
when I get older.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
She finds no skylight
or space to fly
but dips in and out
of the little door
gathering twig
and grass and snags
of blown fleece.
She circles, plaits,
hatches a nest-worth
of speckled eggs,
fills her box
on the garden wall
with crescendos
of newborn song.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 4:19 AM UTC
Violets
by Michael R. Burch
Once, only once,
when the wind flicked your skirt
to an indiscreet height
and you laughed,
abruptly demure,
outblushing shocked violets:
suddenly,
I knew:
everything had changed.
Later, as you braided your hair
into long bluish plaits
the shadows empurpled,
the dragonflies’
last darting feints
dissolving mid-air,
we watched the sun’s long glide
into evening,
knowing and unknowing.
O, how the illusions of love
await us in the commonplace
and rare
then haunt our small remainder of hours.
Published by Romantics Quarterly, Muse Apprentice Guild, Victorian Violet Press, Boston Poetry Magazine, and Poetry on Demand
Keywords/Tags: Violets, flowers, wind, skirt, blush, hair, shadows, sunset, evening, love, illusions, time, commonplace, rare
Mar 19, 2020
Mar 19, 2020 at 11:45 PM UTC
Memories and flashbacks
Childhood. . . Grandma
Spoiled
Peaceful, country meadows
Ponds
Spaghetti O's
Roast beef, beans and cornbread
Homework
her third grade education
Finding me with n Strangers
When my mom decided to go on drug fending binges from city to city
The swingset I wanted
The mudpies she ate
The sacrifices she taught me of
The determination she instilled
The cold mornings she made fires
Warmth, breakfast in bed
Kittens, clotheslines, and the never ending biscuit bowl that I never understood how it remained full day after day.
The plaits I hated yet love now
The smell of her clothes
How she sashayed when she dressed up
Her anger
Sitting in the porch with our dog Spot
Princygal the cat
Late night peanut butter cookie baking
The sign in her wall that said
Life is one fool thing after another
Love is two fool things after each other
That I read over and over again until finally I understood.
Everything clean and cooked by noon
What happens tomorrow?
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
Sister Bernadette
came rushing
across the grass
to where Anne
was screaming
about the pain
in her amputated leg
sitting next to you
by the small white table
where does it hurt?
Sister Bernadette asked
in the leg
Anne screamed
but the leg’s been amputated
the sister said
lifting the hem
of Anne’s skirt
showing space
where once a leg
had been
you turned
your head away
Malcolm was swinging
on the swing
his hands gripping
the steel chains
on either side
as he rode his ride
I know the ******* leg’s gone
Anne screamed
but it still hurts
language
in front of the children
Sister Bernadette said
I’ll speak to Matron
and see what she says
and off the sister went
leaving Anne following her
with her deep eyes
you looked back at Anne
taking in her dark hair
plaited into two plaits
I think they call it
a phantom leg
you said
what is?
Anne said
turning and staring at you
a limb amputated
but still causing pain
you said
what you a doctor now Skinny Kid?
no
you said
just saying what I read
some place
forget it
she said
hand me my crutches
you handed her her crutches
and she stood up
and crutched herself away
towards the far end
of the garden
come on Skinny Kid
she said
let’s go catch the sea
coming in or going out
and breathe some salt air
ok
you said
running to catch her up
her one leg
swinging forward
a lonesome traveller
across the well mown lawn
her naked thigh and calf
showing as the skirt rose
in motion
and filling the air
like a gull cry
her bellowing laugh.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
Woven strands of silken hair
over, under, over, under
Brushed away from face and neck
over, under, over, under
Like the weaver's warp and weft
over, under, over, under
Tidiness made beautiful.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 3:42 AM UTC
Outside school by the steps
leading down
I wait for Helen
I'd seen her in class
but I want to walk home
with her
as she said
Cogan pulls her hair
if I’m not there
it's dampish
the sky is grey
the sun is weak
I watch other kids
go by down the steps
and off to their homes
then she comes
sees me and smiles
her hair in two plaits
and her thick lens glasses
slightly smeared
thank you
for waiting for me
she says
Cogan said
he was going to pull
my hair and put worms
down my back
well I’m here
so he won't
I say
she looks around her
and we walk off
and down St George's Road
why is he
so horrible to me?
she asks
because he can
or thinks he can
I say
bullies are like that
he said I was a fish face
she says
as we go onward
you're pretty
I say
don't take notice
of him
am I?
she says
really pretty?
of course you are
I say
she smiles
we go under the subway
and I sing so
that my voice
echoes along the walls
she seems happier
join in
I say
I can't I’m too shy
she says
I like her simplicity
her innocent being
we come up
the other side
onto the New Kent Road
and walk by
the Trocadero cinema
what are you doing
after tea?
I ask her
have to see
what Mum says
she says
she may want me
to help her bath
the baby
ok
I say
if you can get out
I’ll be on the bomb site
off Meadow Row
she nods
and I walk her
to her home
and then walk along
Rockingham Street
to Banks house
for some tea
and see Mum
and change
and then off I go
to Meadow Row.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 3:26 PM UTC