"wellington" poems
I saw the Maori Jesus
Walking on Wellington Harbour.
He wore blue dungarees,
His beard and hair were long.
His breath smelled of mussels and paraoa.
When he smiled it looked like the dawn.
When he broke wind the little fishes trembled.
When he frowned the ground shook.
When he laughed everybody got drunk.
The Maori Jesus came on shore
And picked out his twelve disciples.
One cleaned toilets in the railway station;
His hands were scrubbed red to get the **** out of the pores.
One was a call-girl who turned it up for nothing.
One was a housewife who had forgotten the Pill
And stuck her TV set in the ******* can.
One was a little office clerk
Who'd tried to set fire to the Government Buldings.
Yes, and there were several others;
One was a sad old quean;
One was an alcoholic priest
Going slowly mad in a respectable parish.
The Maori Jesus said, 'Man,
From now on the sun will shine.'
He did no miracles;
He played the guitar sitting on the ground.
The first day he was arrested
For having no lawful means of support.
The second day he was beaten up by the cops
For telling a dee his house was not in order.
The third day he was charged with being a Maori
And given a month in Mt Crawford.
The fourth day he was sent to Porirua
For telling a ***** the sun would stop rising.
The fifth day lasted seven years
While he worked in the Asylum laundry
Never out of the steam.
The sixth day he told the head doctor,
'I am the Light in the Void;
I am who I am.'
The seventh day he was lobotomised;
The brain of God was cut in half.
On the eighth day the sun did not rise.
It did not rise the day after.
God was neither alive nor dead.
The darkness of the Void,
Mountainous, mile-deep, civilised darkness
Sat on the earth from then till now.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 7:53 AM UTC
We were teammates
We suited up
We showed up
We weren't stars
But we rolled in the dirt
With the best of them
Our blood ran red
Like the rest of them
Our sweat tasted salty
As the most athletic of them
Wounds and bruises
Ached like the most
Stalwart of them
We were Bulldogs!
We anted up our
Gifts and talents to
Forge a winning season
A flair for humor
Wry observation,
Encouragement, fortitude
And intelligence were as
Valuable as speed,
Agility and strength
We all pined for the
Affection of cheerleaders,
Bandmembers and the
Adoration of fans
We equally joined
In the chorus of
locker room banter
And honored the
Confidence of camaraderie
Such intimacy bares
We endured thankless
Adversity, while wending
through anonymous toil
As brothers
We grudgingly drank
From the vile cup of defeat
And passed the chalice
Of victory among us
To share the savory
Taste of triumph
As champions
The Duke of Wellington
Said “the battle of Waterloo
Was won on the fields of Eton”
I trust my teammates and
Not forgotten friends
Tasted sweet victories of
Happiness and success
As they coursed through
Their prodigious fields of life
And at games end
I hope their heart swelled
With pride to know they were
A beloved and Valiant Bulldog
David Irving Korsh #75
BCSL Champion 1973
Rutherford Bulldogs
Well done Valiant Bulldog
God bless and Godspeed
Music Selection:
Bruce Springsteen
Thunder Road
5/5/18
Puyallup
jbm
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
A reticent fox slinks by beneath
the trees
that still have leaves
conversing for now
the change in colors
sleeps still, unannounced
the rain smells of ploughed earth
& freshly hung-out clouds
& wellington boots
Autumn's child cries it's first word
& inside a low-lit pub
a crisp old cider's poured
September's dreams
fermenting
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
As rain beats down on canvas,
I squeeze my face through the zip.
The clouds are swelling and angry;
The wind hits my cheeks like a whip.
I retreat to the core of my tent
And trip on the wellies inside.
Still covered in last year's mud,
These purple boots fill my mind.
I am fond of my waterproof shoes.
I ponder their rubbery struggles:
Abandoned for most of the year,
But mighty when dealing with puddles.
The water rises and enters,
It covers my groundsheet in mud,
But I've got wellington armour
To conquer the enemy flood.
I must learn to rely on my wellies,
When storm clouds rumble and growl.
I have come to a happy conclusion:
My wellies will not let me drown.
I squeeze through the zip of my tent
And plant my feet in the slime.
I am met by a brave fellow camper
Wearing wellies the colour of mine.
There are porches all over the country
With lonesome wellies inside.
If ever a storm is a-brewing,
Put them on, take it all in your stride.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
I'm starting to think that maybe you were just born distant. Your mother held you from the furthest place that is in the hospital. And you move from place to place, but my place. Wellington and London so when you said “Baby, you feel like home to me.” it means 12,990 miles apart from each other. And sometimes you are just a dream away, though I often woke up crying. Or though most of the time i didn't wake up at all, still sleeping.
We used to talk about how lucky humans are, that they have 12,990 plus ways of saying I owe you my eternity. And how I love you is at the very bottom of the list. A ***** disgrace, barely hanging with the hollowness it brings everytime it rings. So you can't really blame me that every single time you spit your ‘I love you’s the only way i ever wanted to reply was with an ‘I hate me too’s.
Babe,
you haven't been saying ‘drive savely’ lately so I've been causing trouble down the road. Drawing zigzags here and there, yelling “At least you don't burn like this” to a carcrash.
Babe, ask me ‘are you home yet?’ because i was never once home since the day you stopped coming home, just 12,990 miles apart from each other. and ask me if i was ever safe and i'll be looking at you with my confused face and say “i'm in a war how can i be safe?”.
And sometimes you are just a dream away, barely hanging with the hollowness it brings everytime you ring.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
at the desk, applying for jobs
there is coffee in my cup
and paint in the creases of my fingernails,
on the wall, a whiteboard with new song lyrics
and a list
of things I need to buy,
of course, once I have the money to buy them,
which brings me back to the desk
which an empty bottle of Cabernet Merlot
sits with an empty glass
and notebooks and a mason jar
with cloudy brown-red water
from the bristles of my paintbrushes
my coffee is cold
the french press is in the kitchen
but my flatmate is filming in there
so I’m stuck at my desk
with two sips of cold coffee left,
applying for jobs.
I feel very fragile
right now,
partly because I didn’t go to a job interview
today,
partly because I didn’t go to a job trial,
on friday
though I don’t want to be a waitress
and **** modelling for art classes scares me.
there’s a plant on my windowsill
named Lucy
and she doesn’t have to do anything
and there are two vanilla candles and an incense holder
with lavender incense burning
but **** all the things that
"bring peace"
like small plants, candles, incense, crystals and photographs;
I want a healthy and clean life,
so I have these things
part as a protection
from my own mind
but to be perfectly honest,
I’m at the desk, browsing jobs online,
saving them for later into a bookmark folder entitled
"Wellington Jobs"
instead of actually applying.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
It was the type of day Wellington is infamous for:
rain slanting into the pursed and puckered faces
of harried pedestrians
and I, out and about with my secret
that in the tall towers where the wheels
grind slowly
a thing not made of commerce
a growing not spurred by market forces
an investment not subject to whims and crises,
but a spark ignited by two people
laying themselves open to love
and hope and dreams and
schemes sometimes lost sight of,
was fanning the flame,
the head, heart, flesh, bone and wairua
of a life
taking root in my beloved's belly,
a life long longed for
a life
whose existence sweeps before it all petty irritations
and affixes itself on my face
as a big stupid grin
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
Mading relieves Manute from guard duty.
They share a meagre meal of millet porridge before
Manute returns to the refugee nation of southern Sudan.
The noon sun is a harsh sentence for a parched tongue but
they talk not of coffee or juice-laden fruit and
rice and lentils are mountain memories their stomachs can ill afford.
Instead they curse the clear skies that rain only strafing jets and
pray for their dry-breasted wives on pilgrimage to the aid station
carrying children swollen with the promise of death.
They snarl rumours about al-Bashir’s lapdogs
in Khartoum growing fat on food intended for them.
Jason waits, informed by cell phone of Laurie's imminent arrival.
He orders a wheat beer, its earth tone inviting on a silver tray and
its musky sweetness washing away a morning of phone business.
The noon sun is a warm blessing through the picture window but
they talk not of haloed hills or the light-laden river and
recession and retrenchment are market memories their ulcers can ill afford.
Instead they debate '63 cabernet versus '74 chablis and
moan about their reconstructed wives driving halfway across town
carrying children swollen with the promise of private schooling.
They snarl rumours about Key's cabinet
in Wellington while wolfing crayfish and Steak Diane.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
It's September; cold in the copses,
Feverish in the kitchen.
The sink clinks and exorcises
The china like an Italian sonata.
My lips merge into ether
At the sky, a periwinkle parallax
With the pork lard carbon monoxide
Clouds, at drive with suicide.
My Buddha hisses at the window,
Ripping the tentacles off weedy carrots.
The knives are clever & precise
Hiding in their handled shoals
Like luminescent Jackanapes
Out for the thrill of the ****
The **** of the stake of steak,
A 'Cow'ardly act.
I wrap the red & dead
Into a Beef Wellington.
It is not pretty at all;
But neither am I.
I'll drink tea to keep my peace,
Swallow my spirituality like a pain killer.
The teabag sags its straggled string,
Scolding me.
The pillbox is dead on the edge
Of the ornamented kitchen sill
A lot like me; sullen and teasing.
I wanted to roast my head like a potato
If the pudding *** over boiled,
A cauldron of sugar and cream
Fattening me ugly and crazy.
The weather is miserable; I mustn't lie,
It's enough to make any young woman want to die.
Stirring my thoughts with the dishes,
Trashing potato peels like my wishes.
And the stacks and stacks of kill-me pills
Surround like troops in their barricade cupboards.
I have no allies,
Everyone is asleep;
I curl up like a fat snail and weep
Blackening the words of the miracle-working Priest.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
Having washed her doll
Battered Betty in the baby
bath, Helen dries it in an
old towel her mother gave
her, rubbing it with her
childish motherly attention
to detail. That done, she
dresses Betty in some doll's
clothes her father brought
home from a junk shop
on his way home one Friday.
She wraps Betty in a fading
shawl, and goes to the front
door. Where you off to? her
mother asks. Taking Betty
out for a walk, she replies.
Where abouts? probably
to Jail Park, Helen says.
Watch out for strange men,
her mother says. I'm with
Benedict, Helen says. O,
well that's OK then, her
mother says, relieved,
pushing damp hair from
her lined forehead. Helen
goes out the front door
and walks along to the
railway bridge next to the
Duke of Wellington pub
where Benedict said to
met him. She pats the doll's
back as she walks, tightens
the shawl to keep the doll
warm. Benedict is waiting
by the pub wall; his cowboy
hat is pushed back, 6 shooter
gun is tucked in the belt
of his short trousers. Helen
sees him before he sees her,
she prepares herself: licks
fingers to dampen down her
hair, straightens her thick
lens spectacles, wipes her
nose on the back of her hand.
Am I late? she says as she
approaches him. He pushes
himself from the wall, his 6
shooter quickly out of the belt,
he blows the end. No, he says,
just thinking of the Billy-the-Kid
I saw at the cinema the other day.
Got shot. Died. I wouldn’t have
done that, I'd not have turned my
back on the marshal whatever
his name was. Helen rocks Betty
in her small arms. Given Betty
a bath, she says, nice and clean now.
Benedict gives the doll a glance,
puts his gun away in the belt.
Good, he says, can't have our
kid ***** Helen smiles, no, we
can't, can we, she says. Mum
says to look out for strange men,
she adds as an after thought.
Benedict pats his gun, no strange
man will get to you or Betty,
he says determinedly. Just as
Mum says, Helen says quietly,
looking at the cowboy beside
her, his hat now pushed forward,
his hazel eyes focusing, on her
and the doll. Let's go walk, he
says, I'll give you and Betty
a push on the swings and
roundabout. So they walk up
Bath Terrace, she telling him
about a boy at school calling
her four eyes, and he musing
of putting a couple of slugs in
the kid's head: BANG BANG,
the caps will go, just smoke,
no holes, no death, or if he chose,
maybe a good sock in the nose.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
I fantasize
about marching with my friends
down wellington
forcing the government
to look below,
and think
"maybe they're right."
but instead, they think
"shut it down."
i fantasize
about taking care of the wounded
doing my part
and truly feeling
that there is power in unity
forcing the government
to look below,
and think
"maybe we're wrong."
but instead, they think
"send more troops."
i fantasize
about singing "l'internationale"
with thousands of my comrades
as we fight for justice
arm in arm,
hand in hand
forcing the government
to look below,
and think
"maybe it's us."
but instead, they think
"casualties don't matter unless the goal is reached."
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 9:25 PM UTC
Mr Kalashnikov I'll ask you nicely
Please don't point that thing at me
Laszlo Biro how nice to see you
Without you where would we be?
Mr Molotov may I remind you
You are in polite company
May I present the Earl of Sandwich
Do partake of his wares
And special desserts are served soon after
Presented in person by Anna Pavlova
The Duke of Wellington brought in some mud
Mr Macintosh is expecting a flood
Candido Jacuzzi and Joseph Pilates
Appear to be making friends
Henry Shrapnel and Joseph Guillotin
Who invited them?
Ferdinand von Zeppelin,
Perhaps you would like a schnapps?
Mr Winchester, Mr Colt, Mr Gatling, Mr Lewis
So many gunmen I'm alarmed I confess
May I trouble you Mr Hoover
To help tidy up the mess?
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
I got soul and I am a soldier.
I got soul, and I AM a soldier.
The world, is full of soldiers, some no older;
than ten, learning to use the pen.
Others, grow colder, killing with their swords again.
In the end, regardless of your reasons or weapons,
it would be treason for me to treat these soldiers like peasants.
The feudal lords send us to die on distant shores as though we were ****** bought and sent to supply their wars and satisfy their demands for more,
blood lust.
Human being does not mean mindless killing machine.
The next time a war scene, plays out in the news,
and you hear the same rhapsody about third world violence and blues;
take a moment of silence, to question,
if it was you,
would you take a different direction or stand up to fight for you and your section?
Soldiers come in all ages, shapes, and complexions.
Some use words for weapons, trading carnage for college;
that's why I don't drop bombs, I drop knowledge, and I don't quote psalms, I pay homage,
to the earthly soldiers of humanity fighting the insanity of a planet where they die in wars fueled by greed, fear, and vanity.
Men, women, and children around the globe rally to the banners of Love, Happiness, and Hope,
trying to cope, with the ropes tightening around their throats.
So they turn to the Pope, or the Shah, or the President, or the King,
all draped in their righteous bling,
blissfully ignoring, the mystery,
as to why history's greatest soldiers were common folks who just kept pushing forward.
Jesus, Muhammad, and anyone who survived a nuclear bombing.
Gandhi, King, and the few whites that stood against African-American lynching.
Galileo, Newton, and those that researched in secret to avoid persecution.
Wellington, Eisenhower, and those that died fighting tyranny in the darkest hours.
The true power, of the soldiers of Man, comes when we take a stand fighting for something we demand. Our grand,
struggles and revolutions are led by those fighting for solutions,
by those that may become political executions.
So to those that question me,
I state emphatically,
yes indeed,
no matter race, gender, or creed,
I stand with all the other souls that are soldiers of humanity,
fighting to save our sanity.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 1:34 PM UTC
From the top of the Terminal,
your size was splayed out,
a grey **** carpet for the Red River Valley.
And The Forks right beneath
our weary walkers' feet
was a thick drop setting up in the center
of your ash grey forehead.
Traced a thumb down Taché and St. Mary's
to the peak of your left cheek on Fermor.
Your traffic light glance blinked us
right to a stop
as blue bomb thoughts and temperatures dropped
at the base of our minds
and your wide, widow's peak sky
formed a cold iron bruise 40 minutes past 5.
I've held your muddy diamond eyes
in mine, how many times?
And you'd sigh, sometimes
from your North End scar,
but the Assiniboine bends around Wellington Crescent,
a stifled, spiced laugh from the failed rebellion
of your Province's youth.
And you know I'm no novice
to the uncouth barbs of the Winter,
'cuz you wrapped asphalt arms
nice and tight
'round our shoulders.
Osborne & Morley for an A-frame embrace.
The face of a city, its wrinkles a sketch
of laugh line drives for donuts and coffee.
Crows' feet stretched through The Exchange.
We followed your grin
from
corner to corner,
from Richardson Airport
to Transcona Yards; one earring a lifeline,
the other, steel bones.
From your St. Norbert chin,
to your twin St. Paul crown,
we would wander,
kiss your River East temple
then call it a night.
I have names for every smile you gave me:
Vi-Ann in the Village,
The Toad in the Hole,
St. Boniface Cathedral, that first time
in deep snow.
I want you to know,
you frozen Great City,
your terrible beauty is written on me.
Each side-slanted grin I shared with your sidewalks
encircles my history now,
even still.
Fill an eye with 5 years
of joyous, drunk laughter
which seeds your purple sand sky with fog ghosts.
Still-frame your patchwork, frostbitten face--
the Perimeter Highway's a jaunt-angled toque;
keeps you warm--
I still wear you
when late Autumn light takes me back.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
*it only took the gherkin to take modern into modern via pickle, but the cabbage pickled dome of the albert hall opera was lost to foe foe foo dub step pluck the plucker of twang of drop d uncool; ah wait, gherkin acne pimples roughage missing on the cabbage suckled, with the flush into oyster moisture past the sexed up morbid cupping of the five fingers telling pistons from pistons? i said as much about my ******** as i did about her mouth, just now, and i wash it off and wash it down shaking hands rather than kissing my children goodnight excusing the **** talking sweet chock choke goodnights; well, it's hard to be credited with womanising when only "polygamy" with prostitutes suffices; but i'll just tell you... swan lake was too loud thanks to the ballerinas' stomps... hated ballet... god curse i will be cursed with sisyphus' labours... i rather roll that stone than hear ballerinas dance once more!*
let the male cat roam and lay rampage to the night, the she-cat sleeps in, then on the third call for ginger: quarus! quarus! nothing... quarus! it begins to rain... shamanism without the safety-net of psychiatry for post-colonial nations trying behaviourism without anger, with anger sterilised, and certain french thinking of fascination with death and suicide with suicidal thought censored for no reason other than not worked with... well, that better be wellington thick rubber on the phallus when i ask for my money back guarantee nine months later.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
I
Walking à trois on Crosby Sands
He left us talking two to the dozen
and went for paddle
in Wellington boots.
The tide was coming in,
and before we could say,
‘hey, you’ll get wet’,
he’d removed all his clothes
(and the Wellington boots)
and stood buff naked
in the incoming sea.
The water swirled about his legs
caressed the hairs, the golden hairs
that still stood on his still trim calves,
his freckled thighs, and all the way up
to his bottom.
I felt I knew his bottom well,
and well enough to have placed
my hand between its cheeks.
But for Gloria . . .
If she was embarrassed
I’d never have known.
I suppose she’s seen rather
more male bottoms than me.
‘He’s just larking’,
she said, and laughed.
But as the tide came in
he was too far out . . .
to be larking.
II
A Water Polo team
5 Aside
winter training
in the autumn cold
good for the muscle tone
Malcolm threw the ball too far
it’s just a dot in the distance now
floating out to the shipping lane
past the windmills down the Welsh coast
next stop the Irish Sea
III
Oh the seductive tide
rolling across the shallow beach
hiding the creased and puckered sand.
Shadows and reflective light
flowed about him,
a mesmeric display of lateral forms,
as his reflection shimmered black
on the grey, brown, grey-white water.
He’d shaved his head
as if in benediction for the sea’s coming kiss
that would surely embrace him, take him
naked into its cold, cold clasp.
IV
Sketchbook in hand
she willed this standing ****
back into her imagination.
So long ago now
on that distant shore
in the opposite hemisphere,
by a blue blue sea,
And so very aroused
by the thought of that stony
wet nakedness beside her,
let her hand tremble
on the ****** page
as she saw his fingers
stretch out and touch
the incoming tide.
V
I watched him
time and again, time and forever,
too far out for me to touch.
His bold shoulders,
his well-muscled back,
from dawn to dusk
he was ever before me,
letting the water lap and kiss,
fold and flow between his legs;
up, up then over his hips:
to cover his spine, to stroke his neck.
I had to imagine his face of course,
being turned away from my outward gaze.
So I sent him my eyes, my ears,
my nose, my mouth and then
a cry from my heart:
‘I love you so, I love you so.’
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
Radio news bulletin in the car
the last item read in those mellifluous tones
is about a seven-year-old boy
struck and killed by a car
in a poor suburb of Wellington.
The protocol around the legal and privacy issues
means it’s “no name, no pack drill”,
but he was someone,
someone’s son, grandson
perhaps even great-grandson.
He had probably had siblings,
definitely friends and playmates.
Somewhere in a house with
inadequate winter heating,
where the household income is
constantly under siege
and life never rises above a struggle,
there is a mother and a father
who bear this greatest grief.
Andrew M. Bell
May 15, 2022
May 15, 2022 at 12:48 AM UTC
In the evening after tea
of bread and jam
and a glass of milk
you went out
and met Helen
under the railway bridge
in Rockingham Street
next to the Duke
of Wellington pub
and she was waiting
there looking up
and down the street
and when she saw you
she waved and walked
towards you
where’s your doll
Battered Betty?
you asked
mum’s washing her clothes
and I didn’t want
to bring her out
with nothing on
she said
no that wouldn’t be decent
you said
where are we going?
she asked
I want to show you
the passages behind
the ABC cinema
you said
it’s like a cavern
of dark passages
and once I saw a rat
running along by a wall
oh god
she said
putting a hand
to her mouth
not a rat
yes it run along
one of the walls
not sure
I want to go there
she said softly
one little rat
isn’t going to hurt you
you said
besides I’ll chase it away
if it comes
will you?
she said
yes of course I will
nothing is going to harm you
while I am here
you said
you showed her
the toy gun
tucked in
the inside pocket
of your jacket
she nodded
and she took
your hand
and you walked her
along and up behind
the Trocodero cinema
and onto
the New Kent Road
and you crossed quickly
before the traffic lights changed
and once you got
to the other side
you took her
to the ABC cinema
and went down beside
the cinema walls
along the dark passages
that went on beside
and behind the cinema
all the time
she gripped your hand
and now and then
her grip tightened
when she thought
she saw something
out of the corner
of her eye
what was that?
she said
stopping still
clutching your hand tight
just a piece of paper
blown by the wind
are you sure?
yes just paper
she untightened
her grip
and you both
walked on
with the sound
of traffic and voices
in the distance
and at the back
of the cinema
you came to an entrance
where two doors where
and you said
sometimes the doors are open
and you can sneak in free
she looked at you
her eyes behind
her thick lens glasses
large and innocent
is that allowed?
she asked
no
you replied
if they catch you
you get into trouble
but if you’re lucky
you can get in
no trouble
you said
oh
she said
my mum wouldn’t like it
if I got into trouble
we won’t get in tonight
anyway
you said
the doors are locked
another time maybe
and she gripped
your hand
and her face looked shocked.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC
After tea
you went out
into the summer evening
without cowboy hat
or rifle
but your six shooter
tucked in the belt
of your jeans
to meet Helen
under the railway bridge
next to the Duke of Wellington
public house
I thought you weren’t coming
Helen said
standing in her summer dress
and holding her favourite doll
Battered Betty
my horse refused to come
so I had to walk
you said
Helen smiled
my mum knows I’m with you
but I mustn’t be out late
Helen said
where shall we go?
you asked
let’s go and see
what’s on at the cinema
Helen said
so you both walked
along the back streets
until you came
onto the main road
and studied the cinema billboards
I saw Davy Crockett here
you said
who’s he?
Helen asked
he was a frontiersman
who fought Indians
and wore a bearskin hat
you said
was he here?
Helen asked
it was a film
you replied
oh
she said
she swung Battered Betty
behind her back
from hand to hand
I haven’t been
to the pictures recently
mum said we can’t afford it
what about Saturday matinee?
you asked
you could come to that
it’s for kids only
and it’s fun
Helen brought Battered Betty
into her arms
I’m not sure
she said
I could asked your mum
you said
I’d take care of you
I’ve got my six shooter
Helen put her hand
in your hand
and said
ok she’d listen to you
Helen said
you felt her hand in yours
and hoped no boys
who knew you
saw this or
the following
small lips kiss.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 3:58 AM UTC
We sat on top
of the old bomb shelter
on the grass
outside Banks House
evening was creeping in
sky darkening
moon showing
lights on
in the flats
above us
Lydia said
I’ll have to go soon
or my mum'll be
on the war path
me being out still
and school tomorrow
just a few more minutes
I said
a steam train
went over
the railway bridge
over the way
by the Duke of Wellington pub
I love the smell of trains
she said
if I close my eyes
I think I’m on a train
to Scotland or the seaside
we could go
to Paddington train station
I said
I think trains to Scotland
go from there
Lydia looked at me
do they?
yes I' sure they do
I said
she smiled
could we go there
some day?
what Scotland?
I said
no silly
to Paddington station
she said laughing
sure we can
she looked away
and at the moon
above us
stars were visible
best go
she said
or Mum'll
be after me
ok
but we'll make
Paddington
maybe Saturday?
I'll ask Mum
Lydia said
or maybe Dad
he'll know
which trains
go there
we stood up
and climbed down
the bomb shelter
onto the grass
and walked along
by the flats
and maybe one day
she said suddenly
we can go
to Scotland
sure we will
I said
and she seemed happy
about that
and we climbed
the metal fence
and walked up
the slope
and into the Square
and I walked her
to her front door
she knocked
and her mother
opened the door
you're late
she said sternly
we've been talking
Lydia said softly
her mother looked at me
with her stern eyes
it's late
the moon's out
and there's
school tomorrow
Lydia frowned
and walked in
and her mother
shut the door
I walked off
and up the stairs
to my parent's flat
thinking of Scotland
and Lydia and me
and the sky darkened
like a deep moonlit sea.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
Fay can see Baruch
from the window
of the living room
down on the area
of grass below
he is alone
sitting on one
of the bomb shelters
left over
from the war
she peers down at him
taking in
the cowboy hat
the silver looking
6 shooter toy gun
he seems
to be cleaning
she wishes
she was there
with him
but her father
says she is to stay in
and learn about the saints
and said he will
quiz her later
when he gets home
from work
about them to see
what she has learnt
the book
is on the chair
unopened
a bookmark
of St Benedict
lies on top
her mother
is in the kitchen
preparing soup
she knows her mother
would turn a blind eye
if she wanted
to go out
but they both know
that her father
would punish her
if he caught her out
especially
with Baruch
the Jew Boy
as her father calls him
the killer of Our Lord
he often says
although Baruch
denies being involved
in any way
she hopes Baruch
will look up
at her window
and see her
he has put his gun
in the holster hanging
from the belt
of his jeans
and holds a rifle
bought for him
for his birthday
he aims at the sky
and twirls around
pretending to shoot
pigeons flying
over head
she watches him
as he aims
at the coal wharf
where the coal carts
are being loaded
with coal
from chutes above
her father doesn't like
Baruch even though
Baruch always smiles
and says shalom
to him if he passing
her father on the stairs
of the flats
Baruch says
her father is a schmuck
but she doesn't know
what that means
but if Baruch said it
it must be a nice term
she thinks wiping away
the steamed up glass
where she has
breathed on it
she blows him a kiss
from the palm
of her thin hand
he doesn't know
but he'll get it
any how she knows
he aims at
the steam train
passing over
the bridge
by the Duke of Wellington pub
she smiles as he does
the kickback
from his rifle
the train passes
unharmed
the driver unaware
he has been fired upon
by a cowboy
from the grass
she eyes him
determinedly
wants him to look up
at her window
he lifts the rifle
to the sky again
and fires
then he pauses
lowers his rifle
and stares at her window
she waves
he looks
she waves frantically
he looks away
she bites a lip
he stares up
at her window
and beckons her down
with a wave
of his hand
she waves
crossing her hands
as if to say
can't come
he gazes
and then waves
and blows a kiss
from his hand
upwards
then he climbs down
from the bomb shelter
and disappears
the grass is empty
he has gone
the book of saints
lies on the chair
unopened
she goes
from the window
and picks it up
and opens
and begins to read
sensing
a good portion
of her 11 year old
girl's heart
bleeds.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
I have discovered myself to be lost in shimmering puddles of an ancient dream where the recollections
of an acoustic guitar delve into the depths of an autumn sky.
They are unequivocally related to damp wellington boots, butterscotch and bacon.
At last, I have balanced upon the glorious edge of unfathomable childhood rituals where esoteric plantations are shrouded by a hedge of Britannic history.
So, as you seek to slide down the steep and icy pathway into the park, make sure that you return by 9 o’clock in the evening because the black nun wanders around those ghostly woodlands where religious buildings remain to be sunk into historical graves.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
I remember a day,
it was a very rainy day,
mama told us we couldn't come out to play,
but with stubbornness in us, we hid away from her,
put our wellington boots on,
and quietly,
tiptoed outside the house,
to run away,
at that time we were brave,
so young and childish,
yet so gay,
we accepted all sorts of dares,
and created our own little silly games.
I won't forget that rainy day,
when you whispered into my ear,
I was the best est sister ever,
those words brought tears to my eyes,
that's the day I plucked a daisy and placed it in your hair,
and told you that no matter ,
how many days were filled with rainy sad weather,
you always brightened up my day,
you were the reason why the rain didn't bother me then,
when in actual fact it does now that your no longer there.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Breathe in one
Exhale two
Breathe in three
Exhale four
Breathe in love
Exhale hate
Breathe in healing
Exhale pain
Find your center
Calm your mind
Things don't go right
All the time
Learn to let go
Don't suffocate
Go with the flow
And don't deflate
The world is ever changing
There's nothing you can grasp
So why bother crying
When you can't erase the past
If something is painful
Stop right away
But there's no stopping the rainfall
On your sunny day
So grab your Wellington boots
We're gonna get drippy
But there's nothing that can't be solved
With some dancing and skipping
Free yourself
Bad times don't last
Be yourself
Before today's your last
Breathe in happy
Exhale stress
Breathe in beauty
Exhale ugliness
Breathe in one
Exhale two
Breathe in three
Exhale four
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 3:14 AM UTC