BRUSH

Brush free the carpet
of mud and fluff.

Let’s brush off the hurtful comment too,
that snide remark, those graceless words.

We’re cleaning yet collecting,
straightening up, taking out the dirt.
Repositioning dust. Always temporary,
never the same, brush, brush,
to and fro, again – again - again.


SCOOP

The ice cream tub has one
to make the portion fair
for that ever-observant,
pernickety child.

When walking the dog,
we scoop the ****.
carrying the plastic bag
to the waiting wanting bin.

Yet the all-important wooden
scoop is made from a block
of a 2 by 3, with chisel, gouge
and a steady hand.

This farmer’s friend, this open spoon,
lives in darkness and under the lid
of the deep grain bin,
to feed white chickens.


POKE

Getting it out,
placing it right –
but much is trial & error.
If it won’t go in,
give it a poke . . .
and it might.

Nowadays it’s a software app
to help you cheat at on-line games
and , God forbid, an important tool
in the tattooist’s bag – the hand poke,
liner and shader with standard
8 – 32 thumb screws and
completely autoclave able.


CUT

Hogwimpering drunk
or ****** out of mind.
Seventies slang for
individual incapacitation.

A cut can hurt,
display the inner
through incision
in the outer.
Reveals, opens up,
allows a division from
one to another.

This cut of meat on the slab?
For you, madam?
I can cut it up
nice and small
for the baby to chew.


RAKE

Lying there in the long summer grass,
it needs standing up, its teeth cleaned.
When autumn comes it redeems itself,
clearing the path, letting the lawn breath.

In the hand of sculptor, ceramicist, modeller
it fashions variously, cuts, pulls away, gouges,
scrapes, a multi-purpose stick with two ends:
of wrapped wire, of ribboned steel.


LOOK

To make sure it’s right:
correct and straight,
balanced, in proportion.
The magnifier helps,
the camera too,
getting the angle,
the position , the light
gauged . . . with a little looking.
You have to look,
see?


HIT

Whatever needs placing firmly,
needs fixing permanently,
can do with a hit (or two).
A nail with a hammer,
a door with a foot,
it could be a winner,
and right on target,
strike out the opposition,
disable the enemy.
A killer noun.
I prefer the verb.

Broken love
Shader like glass
I still love you
As the glass cuts through
I hope you see
How much I miss you and would like to hold you
I'm miserably loving you
I search the skies, the faraway oceans
hoping you’d feel my emotions
I miss you my beautiful queen
I write this down and I hope
You see how much you really mean to me
I will fight for you my
True love my one and only
Beautiful queen.

At this point,
everything is a shader grey.
A sadder colour,
A harder line.
Nothing really matters
And I am constantly depraved.
For I have voices in my head,
That won't shut up for a minute.
Or maybe they are surrounding me,
Crushing me against the walls,
Telling me what I truly am.
As I live farther along in this
Demented journey most praise,
I wonder why I haven't allowed
The sour taste of pills
The silky texture
To pierce my stomach
And collapse my hope.
My mother told me again,
How angry I make her.
How my presence is unwanted
How I already know this through.
My loved ones are carved to
The side of me
With faces of mockery.
I had the life I wanted,
All at one moment I went from
Elation to depredation.
And all I wish is,
To be able to cut each ribbon
Of my brain from
The inner cracks of my skull
And bury my memories far away.

O' how I miss and mourn for mother's voice
That swiftly passed like Autumn's southern breeze
And took from Spring one less an Angel choice
That left my heart amongst the fallen leaves.
Appears the blossom tips were seeped that pain
As petals shader dark as love in mine
It too resounds in all the bird's refrain
As tho' their sadly tones; has mine assign.
Ah soon will summer rays then pierce my mourn
And shine that glow to when I lived a child
For mother's love is where my summer's born
And out that love my own has since been styled.

O' mother, yes mama I miss you more!
Than all the seasons brought and past before.