"trolleys" poems
We walk the smoke-thick winter street of sweet 'n' sour aromas
amongst a throng of oriental shaded faces (such gentle souls)
who crowd little pushcarts selling scallion pancakes.
Overhead, red talismanic paper lanterns bob, enticing us
to the tap of percussive chopsticks.
We sit in awe; snack on duck-tongue; roast pigs hang
glistening; fat-fresh, ready to fry.
Waiters wheel trolleys piled high with steaming shrimp noodles
past tables of golden oranges and watermelon seeds.
Our Chinese chef prepares shredded pork in garlic sauce.
He smiles and says:
"More guests means more happiness."
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 6:35 AM UTC
Today, I’m sharpening arrows
to aim them at
politicians with snouts in the trough,
clerics who preach peace for themselves
but hatred about others,
academics who promote freedom of speech
but run a Gulag Archipelago
for those who don’t follow their own ideas
or buy their textbooks,
hypocrites everywhere,
celebrities in general,
people who don’t smile,
people who aren’t nice,
(why are they here?)
fanatics, tyrants and power mongers,
(there are a humungous lot of these)
boring people,
(they wouldn’t be boring
if they could just try to engage a little more)
and those who block supermarket isles
with their trolleys while they stop and gossip.
I’d really like to put a few arrows in their butts
to puncture their pretensions and hear
the subsequent hiss of preciousness
unless they sincerely promise
to be more considerate
and try to love a whole lot more.
Now. I don't insist they have to love prodigiously,
but I reckon they could lighten the **** up
just a little, and try to laugh more frequently.
That's all.
Mike T Minehan
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
Who's that pale chick
Mumbling to herself about
Fictional schools of witchcraft and wizardry
And trolleys and snakes?
Oh that's just Christine
She's not that bad
If she tells you she's a
Reanimated corpse
Walking among the living by using brains as sustenance
Don't pay any attention.
She's probably just kidding.
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
There in the corner resting silently the old wooden bench
reclines beneath the billowing sky. Peeled and pale much
the worst for wear.
"A couple of young fellas down at Kitty Hawk flew like wounded ducks". Did you hear?
That was a humdinger. "Somebody swiped the Mona Lisa right under their noses"
Tick
witness to it all has heard the deepest of dark secrets whether tumbledown in solitude
or passed about in chatter.
"The Titanic went down last week ,What a pity." wasn't that thing impossible to sink"
well I'll see you later The Trolleys are running slow today.
There's this young upstart playing at the picture show this week. Chaplin I think his name is
Moving pictures,oh what will they think of next.
I got a letter from William fighting in The Somme. Dont know when or if he is coming home.
Nights are cold in the rain. Tick
Bathtub gin. A little nip every now and then can't be a sin.
The Lucky Lindy is the latest swing.
Tock.
Mickey mouse meet sliced bread. The birth of a nation
Bring the kids out on Saturday The can play awhile.
Heard That ****** Trotsky got shot. What do you think that will bring
Guess Adolf bit off more than he could Chew cause that big air war in
Britain made him tuck tail.
Tick
The greatest generation has come and is all but gone
The park bench sits and awaits the dawn
past Y 2 K and on and on
till today, this very hour
waiting for another story to tell
like a morning flower at sunrise
Beautiful petals and leaves
No one grieves for the passing of time.
The park bench sighs and
Then reclines.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
EᔕᔕᕼI ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
*'Oh Ainhara, you always seem to know what to
do...'* Esshi chuckles. "Thank you very much.
Have you done the Queen Mother's flower
arrangements?"
"Yes, all of them have been watered and
now they are being placed around the palace."
Esshi nods. "Good. Thank you very much.
Carry on then."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The florist smiles and leaves as Esshi places
the vase down on a clean counter as well as
the inkpot and quill while staring at the
paper.
'What should I say...?' she wonders as
she hears the meat sizzle. Bale is washing
the carrots and potatoes and chopping
them into medium-sized chunks.
Esshi blinks and smiles. 'Got it!'
Folding a paper in half she writes on
the paper, using her best calligraphy.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
When she's done, she places the quill
in the inkpot and gently blows the paper.
'Perfect!' Esshi beams. "Bael? Where do
you keep the serving trolleys?"
"In the back!" he says as he pours in
the ingredients into the paella pan
and mixes gently.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi goes to the back room and sees
a rose-silver serving tray with wheels
which she rolls out, placing the
bouquet and note on it while waiting
for Bael and his team to finish cooking.
Bael smiles that proud smile before pouring
some soup into a bowl and placing it on the
serving tray.
"Thank you, Bael."
"Not a problem. Do give our Queen my
regards." he faces his working staff.
"If they're done, bring them over!"
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Almost instantly, the chefs bring small plates
of their Queen's favourite treats and top it
off, a fresh brew of Jasmine Pearls.
"Thank you all so much." Esshi says gratefully.
"It's our pleasure." A chefs says as Bael
claps.
"Well done, everyone. Now we best get on the
Queen Mother's meals. Go started! I will see
Lady Esshi out."
Esshi covers the food as Bael opens the door
for her to leave. She is stunned to see Ainhara
there.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Oh my, Bael!" Ainhara smiles at him. "You
certainly worked hard."
"The life of a Chef." he beams. "When you're
done, do come by again. I'll have some meals
waiting for you!" he winks at them and
returns to the kitchen.
"The shipments?" Esshi asks.
"All are being presented, documented and
stored away by the Queen Mother." Ainhara
says. When she sees the flowers, she smiles
and the words on Esshi's note makes her
smile even more.
"Let's make way." Ainhara says as Esshi pushes
the tray behind her, making their way
for the young Queen's chamber.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
How are things going? I desperately want to ask
But now I remember how I called you that night crying and desperate
“Sorry dear, I have bigger priorities,” you mumbled nonchalantly in a tone that cut
I guess what was important to you was your short silver dress which you had to keep tugging at
And your layers of mascara which smeared in the heat and the sweat
Maybe you didn't feel like being responsible or putting up a fight
Didn't feel like talking in the pulsating strobe lights
Where you drank and danced and smoked,
Your hands around the masculine men with whom you hooked
I wonder if you still would have hung up if you knew I was crying for you.
And one year later you still haven’t changed
You’re out of school and awfully deranged
Lying at the side of the road in a drunken stupor,
Stinking of smoke and giggling hoarse
Your dress riding up mid-thigh and your heels strewn across the street
Ordering McDonald’s, planting fries in your friend’s garden throwing fits
Sitting in trolleys in supermarkets at 3 am in the morning screaming at the top of your lungs and I
Miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you.
If I ever saw you again I’d bury my face in your long raven hair and whisper how much you meant to me, once.
I’d stroke your whiter than white skin, touched and kissed by fifty other men
Bruised by the very people you call your friends
And I’d cry in your chest and tell you to come back
If all you’d do is swig down a bottle of beer
And not look my way, but cackle cruelly wailing dear
I would die more than a little inside
You stopped caring about anything that was supposed to matter,
Like being better than everyone and writing beautiful badass essays about saving the sharks
(And understanding everything I never understood about myself and laughing at the things I used to say and pinning my name with stars on your charts)
You forgot your dreams of wanting to travel and petting kangaroos, carving out something of yourself so they’d remember you for your passion
and loneliness is the only place at which you’re stationed.
Now all you’re doing is living monotonously, “the *** life” you call it, your dreams all burnt up in the intoxication of the hookah you pretend to love and dissolved in the alcohol you swallow now pulsing through your veins.
Come back.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
I dream of you -
My skull all draped in leather and
Badly lit,
And your hands punch
The tusk of my cranium
To get me started.
I dream of you
Skulking around a videogame,
Stealing trolleys.
I dream of you,
Talking in a language
That doesn’t translate,
You’re laughing at something I’ve said,
And I’m laughing back,
Because I don't understand
That I don’t
Understand you.
I dream of you cooking a fry up and
saving me from
Spiders,
I dream of you
In all butterfly colours,
Stuck at one age,
Face changing,
Pixels smattering,
Digestive biscuit hair
Crumbling in the wake of
waking.
I dream of you playing dice in the corner,
Or running from bombs.
I dream that you are bigger than me,
Far bigger than you
Really are.
I dream of you,
Wet dreams of you,
******* me from behind
Like a gold shadow that I can’t touch,
And when I wake up,
I feel like I've done everything with you.
(I dream of my sister,
My father,
And you.
I dream of the healthiest people that I know.)
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
It’s a place where an enticing bay sways,
Music dancing on the misty breezes,
Humdrums of level heads mingle effortlessly,
The constant waves lap up on indigo stacks,
The sun sits bejeweled in the sky,
Sandy stalks of sugarcane sweeten the air,
Drink and pleasure abound,
Vagabonds and harlequins twirl and chant,
The dusk and the dawn live together,
Creamy silver and golden haze weather,
The aesthetic is O so grand,
Celebrations of life here in the sand.
Mad trolleys take them to the city,
The hustle and bustle reduced to saunter,
Adornments of every shape and design,
Line the alleys and canals,
Flora and fauna engrained in the DNA,
Every bit of the city breathes, sighs and laughs,
Back at the bay they all rest together,
Making love by driftwood fires,
They sing like mad poets and howl to one another,
Everyone becomes an instrument,
Everything becomes equal.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
Market square died down this afternoon,
the day of trading over and over all too soon;
and the now the trolleys have been left out,
lights left on waiting for those customers to come again.
*They'll hurry into their jumpers the traders and customers of tomorrow,
weather'll kick up and run up the coast in a rainy fuss.*
Temporary clad walls that are there all year round
are dressed up from the ground every day, tied at the ear
of the frames that hang over corridor of cobbles,
scuffed with the muck from Armani plimsolls
and the heels of this week's Alexander McQueens.
*When the rain comes trading will cease and
they'll flick out their notepads to calculate this month's lease.*
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
As you sit in the cafe
in the shopping mall
you see Sophie
and her man friend
smooching across
the table
he with moustache
and thinning
combed back hair
and she
with dark black hair
straight to the collar
of her white blouse
they purse their lips
he closes his eyes
leans forward
she likewise
as if
in some French cafe
in some 1950s film
you sip your latte
watch the show
he once worked
pushing trolleys
in some super store
she unsure
but with a carer
sometimes seen
walking the mall
or in the bank
or shops
and some days
she’ll come up
and say hello
in a loud voice
as if she’d not
seen you
in a thousand years
other days not at all
or she’ll tell you
some news
about her life
or some small trouble
that’s got her down
today she sits
and kisses
and converses
with the man friend
and he’ll laugh
and maybe she too
and hold hands
over the cokes and cakes
you sit back
in the chair
and watch them there
repeat their kissing
or holding hands
the Romeo eyes
now open
leaning near
mouthing words
you cannot hear
she lips still pursed
says loudly
of a love
she feels
or how hot
the weather is
or how his scarf
untidy looks
or unbuttoned shirt
others who do not
know them sit
and gawk
and make snide comment
behind their hands
make judgement
in their bourgeoisie world
but you like others
who know them of old
sit and drink
and make no judgements
of what they say
or do but watch
the kissing
and holding of hands
like in a B feature
at the cinema
waiting for
the real thing maybe
but content to see
the movie through
having no where to go
or other things to do.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
Christmas excitement
Gaffers & gofers
booms & boxes
trucks & trolleys
They've chosen today
to shoot a movie
2 floors below me
No pics allowed
Twenty four tropical Christmases
It still seems so odd
so discordant
Disconnected
Gambling movies filmed
when most of my friends
are last-minute shopping
and thinking of Santa
They're wrapping presents
and keeping secrets
Thinking about how long
the turkey will take to cook
Dressed in jumpers
coats and scarves
Fingers blue
noses red
No puddles to slide on here
no snow
Just air like silk
and monsoon rain
Sweat trickling
in endless rivers
No goose bumps leaving tracks
across my skin
Out the window
cheeky mynah birds chatter
a white bellied eagle soars
Not a robin in sight
As the sun sets
painting the sky
a kaleidoscope
of gentle colour
A nomad soul wonders
why she's happy to wander
And yet
she so longs to belong
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 1:22 AM UTC
Lydia's father said
she could go with you
to Waterloo railway station
mind the roads though
he said(in his
sober moments
he could be quite
considerate)
and not too near
the edge
of the platform
can't have you
falling in front
of a train
so you took a bus
to Waterloo station
both sitting at the rear
of the bus
on the side seats
having paid
the conductor the fare
and sitting there
watching
the passing views
she in her pale
blue dress
her dark straight hair
pale features
thin arms and legs
you thinking
of the steam engines
the power
and the puff of smoke
grey white
and she thinking
of her big sister
coming home
in the early hours
puking in the bog
her mother giving one
hell of a loud scream
of abuse
and her father saying
O give the girl a chance
and Lydia turning over
in the double bed
dreading her sister's
arrival stinking of sick
hanging off
the side of the bed
with a bucket beside
throwing up
what was once inside
the bus arrived
and you got off
and you said
hang on to my hand
we'll cross together
and so she held
your hand
her thin bony fingers
wrapped about yours
her hand cold
thin nails chewed
got to keep an eye
on you
your old man said
you said
and you crossed
running to avoid
the rushing traffic
and once across
she said
that man next to me
on the bus
put his hand
on my thigh quickly
but then we got off
and I didn't know
what to say
she added
you should have told me
you said
she looked anxious
and bit her lip
no matter now
too late
but if you see him again
tell me
and we'll get
the ******
you said
she nodded
and so you walked
into the station
past crowds of people
and porters
pushing trolleys
of luggage or mail
by the tall copper
with hands behind
his back
and on to the platform
and took a seat together
to watch trains
and hear the sounds
and smell the acrid
smoke and engines
come and leave
sense the overpowering
sounds of released steam
and whistles blown
and flags waved
and passengers
boardings
and disembarking
and you taking
a side view of her
sitting there
anxiety
in the features
of her face
her hair straight
and well brushed
she unaware
you gazed
and took it all in
and she thinking
of her sister's moans
and occasional vomiting
and she hardly sleeping
and now here
watching trains
you beside her
in your short
sleeved jumper
and cowboy shirt
and jeans
and sniffing in
the smell of smoke
and steam
and listening
to the engines
start up
and sense
the thrill of power
in the huff and puff
and she for once
happy just being there
far from her sister's snores
and her brother's tease
here to be
with you and be
as she please.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
carried buildings around
in his head, not real buildings
just un-sketched plans,
you understand?
He had always wanted to build a replica of
the town where he was born
not from mortar or bricks
but from spaghetti and matches and
lollypop sticks.
He wanted to build the fire station and a church
and the supermarket where he would make
tiny shopping trolleys and scatter them over
the make believe car-park where tiny
people would be carrying on with their daily chores
holding tiny bags and thinking big thoughts
He wanted there to be a spacious park for
imaginary children to enjoy wholesome picnics.
And ponds where geese, ducks and swans would
glide on the surface
near broccoli sized trees.
The town in his head would be better then the town in which
he walked but he had one big problem
he spend hours wondering how he could make the sun.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC
Mexico is a great gift. But there. Good services (male / female / people). The founder of the Boston Market has 300 boxes. Many adults make mistakes. In the Philippines (4), prostitutes, many doctors are wrong. In Brazil, France and Brazil it is difficult to reduce the 600-100-1. Brazil 300 300 pure white, new regions of Russia, Morocco, Wilson, Brooklyn, Harlem, George Washington and at least four. 40.82 300 + 8: Mobile, Google solves the problem with Greece, Macedonia, South Africa, South Africa and Sweden. Mexico is the name "William". Mexico, color, 300 years without other black ornaments for horses or card assistants. Russia, Russia, Russia and Russia. "For 600 years Brazil has 600,000 dollars, 600, many teachers and many other things and bloggers," Sugar, Sugar ": Events: 8: 8 however, Ricky 40.82 South Africa with Joseph because he does what is right for China Africa click on Google Toolbar was and will not ruin Julius Caesar's school, it is above all the foundations of Alkcal's alkaline, the way of life of the child. (4) in three years, 82 Peter Kirkland, George Washington in the White House, Nazarene introduced by Tom, has two dogs, Brazil, Brazil, 600 and 600-600 600-600 games, so thank you for your government that 1000 F-Oh-rty-two children 8 + 8 and 8 women 8, 40, 82, South Africa , Northwest Africa, the continent of Africa Good service (male / female / people) Lotus Boston Trading is the latest version of the 300 Sleeves 600-100-1 Brazil 300 300 pure white regions of Russia, Morocco, Wilson, Brooklyn, George Washington and at least four others. 40.82 300 + 8: Mobile, Google solves the problem with Greece, Macedonia, South Africa, Ica Ica, and Sweden. Mexico is the name "William". Mexico's color for 300 years; There are no more black horses or carts. Russia, Russia, Russia and Russia. "There are 600,000 doctors in Brazil, Brazil, Brazil 600, who do not crash it". Stories, Teens 8 8: South Africa: 40.82 Ricky, African Football, Mother, China and Africa, click on Google Toolbar Jumper Alkashams to protect the house or destroy it. Georgia responds with jelly beans and head piercing each girl's skin to study the words of a group as well as the salivation of young men and women. (82) 82 82 (4) in three years, 82 Peter Kirkland and George Washington back in the White House introduced by Nazareth. Tom has two dogs. Today is a good team. The flight chooses this option in California. Good public security services, public offices and other names. 1.1. Brazil, Brazil, 600 and 600 to 600 600-600 games. Thank you for your head? And everything in the world is great. women. there are many problems at home. The sons of forty victims will come. 8 + 8 and 8 women, 8, 40, 82, South Africa, North-West Africa and the African continent. In fact, click on Google. Mexico is a great gift. But there. Good services (male / female / people). Traffic in Boston. Lotus is the latest sleeve version of 300. In many adult mistakes. In the Philippines (4), they commit many doctors who are wrong. In Brazil, France and Brazil it is difficult to reduce the 600-100-1. Brazil 300 300 pure white, new regions of Russia, Morocco, Wilson, Brooklyn, Harlem, George Washington and at least four. 40.82 300 + 8: Mobile, Google solves the problem with Greece, Macedonia, South Africa, South Africa and Sweden. Mexico, whose name is "William". Mexico, color, black kits 300 years, and other helmets of horse trolleys. Russia, Russia, Russia and Russia. "There are 600,000 doctors in Brazil, Brazil, Brazil 600, who do not crash it". Events: 8: 8 However, Ricky 40.82 South Africa is good for the Tully Halls in China and Africa, click on Google Toolbar and delete the school. Glass bottles with nitrogen oxide come from Alkasham.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 8:39 AM UTC
Hold hold hold and
FALL
Down,
past supermarket trolleys on either side, ready for acceleration into upset stomachs.
Every trolley has a lady.
A lady who asks "what are you doing?"
Unable to respond, you keep falling uncontrollably all over the place.
Time doesn't exist for you.
This will never be over.
And you're on your back.
In a house that has no resemblance to anything inside your clogged mind.
Trying to get out, you kick and kick and kick and you're out?
Just to loop back to where you fell.
Faint voices bring you back into a reality that isn't the same as you once remembered.
Your head cemented to the floor, able to only move one half of your body.
The world is gone.
You are the only one remaining.
And as you realize this, tears start to fall.
Not because you're the only one remaining, but because your closest friends who were so near are gone.
You never want to feel this.
But this doesn't last.
You can hear the sound of your friend who snaps your memory back into order
and you realize what has just happened.
You won't be going down there for a while.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
Bring me a lantern dear ,
Strike out the fire ,
for my bed awaits me at this late hour .
The curtain is drawn ,
my blanket lies o ,
I rest my weary head ,
and Oft to bed I go .
Awake me in a thousand years ,
Why don’t you ,
and watch over me as I sleep I pray ,
until I awake. .
For as long as I slept the earth froze ,
or cooked ,
or both !
and hell ( they called it that ) men died from its Icey breath ,
and even they cursed the day they were born .
Vermin rats mice scurried then froze to death as even they found no
relief from its polar vortex .
For babies were left out to die in its falling snow ,
Old men stumbled and fell near their homes ,
of which even they did not see again .
I turned and the earth burnt ,
It’s heat burnt forests and grass land as I slept ,
if the suns rays didn’t then man set woodland alight ,
for the thrill .
Men abandoned their pursuit of recreation and kept indoors ,
Until the heat from the sun had ran its course ,
and the earth found shade in the shadows of its night .
I turned again ,
Fly tippers left their unwanted garbage over farm land ,
at the end of the streets ,
In the country where ever they liked ,
for no one cared ,
Certainly not them .
Silt turned to mud and buried towns and fields ,
and man looked ever on lost in grief ,
or weighing their silver on scales of death .
Creatures of the deep of every kind lied dead from plastic bags and toys of every kind ,
Mattresses.,
Supermarket trolleys dumped .
Cans of fizzy drink were left discarded tossed on beaches .
Migrants sailed from their captive shores on dingy unfit for the sea .
they were swollowed whole by the great waters .
.
I turned again ,
Children wrote obscenity s on walls for their thrill ,
carried knives and stabbed each other ,
for their own gratification.
Then
A man who slept in a doorway awoke to freezing wind ,
a lady bent down with hot broth to warm his poor heart again .
Children with bags in hand picked up litter ,
And I awoke after a thousand years of wrong ,
the sun cranked the ice on rivers and lakes ,
and the man fell in love with the world again .
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC
“But maybe your real job is shopping…”
Sleepwalk through stock footage. Life as
documentary. Soundtrack of horror movie score:
ambient electronica, bubblegum nostalgia and
**** love songs. Everything becomes
visual metaphor: blackbirds, barcodes and
birthday candles; Big Pharma pick & mix;
lipstick ritual; pigeon superstition; fraying flags
of fading empires; migratory patterns of
shopping trolleys; special offers; fantastic prizes.
Worker bees are vanishing - they all want to
be queens - and our hives overflow
with honey, but are empty and dead. We got
infected with aspiration, with individualism.
Generically unique career consumers: remember
when you were more than your credit rating,
more than your demographic, more than your
market-driven self-diagnosis?
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
This world is a swam with
a broken neck,
rotting on the canal side.
While the junk of human
life floats in the deep-dirt
water; The cans,
wrappers and sunken
shopping trolleys.
Rancid under a sun
sweating light.
With all the eyes
that dare not look
on the physical,
nor the metaphysical;
for fear of clarity.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 9:08 PM UTC
Back
when we still saw things
through Incandescent eyes &
undiscovered memories
waited for us
like
a first snow in January
She showed me the midnight sky &
All the blinding pinholes in it
where
angels peeked at us
The
watercolor sunrises
while lying on the hood of her car
How
kisses on the forehead
could mend shattered hearts &
scattered thoughts
& chasing each other
through art galleries
out into droplets of rain
brought us
closer
to
god
Those days when
riding on trolleys or
drifting off to sleep next to each other
Meant believing in love
because
we wanted to
Furthest from my mind was
the simple fact,
That she
could make my entire atmosphere
Collapse into nothingness
& She did
She introduced me
to the stars & the sky
&
willfully brought them down
on top of me
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
I've been to the doctor's today
For a change (I wish)
The problem being, on this occasion
A left ******* the size of a bus
And as painful as a nail through a nerve-end
Naturally, it was a lady doctor I hadn't seen before
And she asked if I minded a student being present
Weeeell, they gotta learn somehow....right?
So, that was a young lady too
Questions and discussions,
She seems a good doctor
Ultimately of course,,
I ended up stood there
With my trolleys round my ankles
Upon sight of the offending *****
Which was literally three times the size
Of his constant companion
The doctor reassuringly uttered
"Oh my word......!!
That looks very painful!"
D'yer think?
When all comes to all
It's some sort of nasty infection
So, I've got the tablets and having a scan
Now then, what's my to-do list?
Hospital tomorrow for kidney monitoring
A day or two after that
I've got a scan about another part of me
That also seems to be falling to bits
Then this scan soon as she can arrange it
And what else was it....?
Ah yes, that was it
Remember to dream
By Phil Roberts
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
Lydia
pale and thin
lanky hair
lightish brown
walks with me
to see hot
steam engines
at Kings Cross
train station
her old man
grudgingly
said she could
go with me
we get on
a bus there
sitting on
a side seat
some big guy
stares at us
his deep eyes
drinks us in
then gawks at
Lydia
she blushes
looks away
I give him
my John Wayne
cowboy stare
he looks back
then away
we get off
at our stop
at Kings Cross
smell of steam
sound of trains
huff and puff
and people
rushing by
on to trains
off of trains
we both sit
on a seat
watching this
unfolding
train drama
with porters
with trolleys
and luggage
and parcels
passengers
going by
rich and poor
Lydia
beside me
wanting this
as I do
the grey smoke
rising high
to the roof
turning blue.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
What were you thinking as you pushed those trolleys through Zaventem?
Were you calculating how many minutes, seconds you had left
Was every surreal detail amplified
The incessant rumble of a suitcase wheel
The bright pink silk in a stewardess’s blouse?
What were you thinking as your eyes rested on the family at check-in?
Were you wondering which of them would live or die
The excited young girl in a blue corduroy dress
her ribbon slipping down the shiny braid of hair
Or her smiling father, hand resting gently on his wife’s waist?
What were you thinking as the time drew nearer?
Were you remembering the taste of your last breakfast
The flaky pieces of pastry
cascading onto your plate like exploded tiles
Or that final swallow of hot sweet tea?
What were you thinking?
Or were you cold-hearted
Deciding where to stand
to inflict maximum carnage?
Thinking only of the brothers
who would whisper your name with reverence?
Tell me.
What on earth were you thinking?
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
Was it I who wondered
Sipping on a concrete straw
Waiting through the renegade
Pondering the diamond before me
It was made of paper
Defer through me
Subvert the Zipf distribution
It fades as the cicadas in the leaves
The starry nights close in
like curtains covering the sun
The sky a theatrical production
The structure effacing complexity
One on hand conflation, projection, fuerza
One the other, subversion
What is a hand
Black dog wanders through the meadow
Sing me an odor of the breeze
Trolleys carve out ravines in their wake
The past has with it this mystique, this ambiguity
to understand is to circumambulate
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
The car horns toll the knell of parting day,
The toxic fumes creep slowly o’er the park,
The traffic homeward plods its weary way,
And leaves the world to joggers and the dark.
Now fades the shimmering lakescape on the sight,
And to the air the dusk its stillness brings,
Save where mosquitoes wheel in droning flight,
Ross River virus loaded in their stings;
Save that from yonder television tower
The besieged magnate to his “mates” complains
The A.B.T. has exercised its power,
Sent him packing without ill-gotten gains.
Beneath those tiled roofs, that mortgaged shade,
Where heaves the serf in many an exhausted heap,
Each of the dole queue mortally afraid,
Whose forefathers once rode upon the sheep.
The wheezy cough of beery-breathing morn,
They swallow Berocca for their straw-filled heads,
The clock’s shrill clarion, or their arguing spawn,
Once more shall rouse them from beloved beds.
For they no more have savings in their banks,
Both busy partners toil to meet their ends;
No children run to lisp their heartfelt thanks,
They clamour for Air Jordans like their friends.
Oft did their annual jaunt to Bali yield,
Their furrows smoothed by oily massage strokes;
How jocund were their Customs trolleys wheeled!
Their cases bowed by extra grog and smokes!
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their media-fed dreams have learned to stray;
The Holy Grail of the Lotto life
Has taken free out of the word Freeway.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:59 AM UTC
Paddington
train station
is busy
Lydia
and I walk
through the crowds
of people
passengers
and porters
with trolleys
and voices
calling out
about trains
smell of trains
smell of steam
of people
keep with me
I tell her
so she grabs
hold of me
by the hand
and we swim
through people
they pass us
or swim by
us quickly
hers hand's warm
inside mine
me thinking
us 2 kids
aged just 9
swimming through
this vast sea
of bodies
and their smells
high perfumes
or B.O.
over there
I tell her
on that seat
so we rush
to a long
wooden bench
and sit down
studying
the people
passing by
either way
whistles blown
loud voices
trains shushing
puffs of steam
and her hand
still in mine
holding on
her green dress
slight fading
her white socks
I notice
have holes in
brown shoes
have scuff marks
it's lovely
seeing trains
she tells me
all the steam
and the smell
and the sounds
yes it is
I agree
I tell her
and we sit
as the train
shushes loud
and pushes out
a monster
of blackness
the steam train
from the long
wide platform
out of sight
like some large
dark phantom
of the night.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC