The Secret Admirer

Another morning and another perfect rose splashed

scarlet across Jane’s doorstep from a cloudless blue sky.

 

Such a cliche, hissed her sister through gritted teeth

as yet another infant bit down on her teat.

 

Jane smiled as she sliced lemons for the Earl Grey

and planned yet another glass vase from Habitat.

 

The petals faded and flaked like old newspaper.

When they found her she was lying on a bed of thorns.

 

 

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Photograph by the author

Loopy Linda

Wild as an easterly gale,
on a yellow April day,
you swirled around the grey coast.
Always causing a commotion,
fresh with a smile, a banter
and a sunshine wave.

The first time I saw you was in The Com,
dancing with a chicken leg between your teeth,
see-through as your sparkly top.
You liked Robbie Williams and a beer,
a fag in the sun with your mates,
leaning against the wall, chewing up the day.

The last time I saw you was at the Chippie Van.
Thinner, hair cut short and night in your eyes,
laughing too much, teasing all the guys.
You never got that coffee at mine
or the Spanish holiday, only brief escape
to Witherspoons for one final, sweet latte.

I wish I’d known you better,
the granite girl with a sherbet heart.
I brought daffodils a day too late,
a sudden gust had taken you away.
So wherever you are Loopy Linda,
fly free and blow a hurricane.

 

This poem was written in memory of Linda P, died March 21st, 2013.

 

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Photograph by the author

The Cow Jumped…

Daddy, do cows eat sunshine?

Daddy, does grass taste like spaghetti?

Daddy, why are the cows lying down?

Daddy, do cows have secrets?

Daddy, is mummy a cow?

Daddy, why is she lying on the grass?

Daddy, why is her skin like cold milk?

Daddy, is she staring at the moon?

Daddy, are there cows on the moon?

Daddy, where are you going?

Daddy?

 

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Image by the author

Recycling

The dog named Black Balls watched
from a safe distance as Ivan shoveled
manure at Tundra Corner. Stripped
to the waist, sweat beading his grand
moustache, lush despite his eighty years.
When he found the gold ring he stopped
dead, yelled ‘охуеть!’ and then ‘соси хуй!’
The hens fled to the moonshine shed.

The vintage wedding ring, twenty two carat
and inscribed forever, lingered like winter
sunsets in the empty Heinz soup tin
where Ivan kept his razor and comb.
One morning as he waxed his Stalinesque
twirls before the tarnished mirror
he finally decided on the rich widow
with the plump rump from Paradise Farm.

 

Note:- I am unsure of the accuracy of the Russian swear words so if anyone can advise their help would be appreciated!

 

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Photo by the author

Red Surf

I am cold as a new razor blade
as I wake to the twitter of an opening
day, the dread of eternal winter.

In Feodosia a cast of hawks
shatter the blackening sea. One hollow
flamingo scans an empty beach.

 

Note:- first line borrowed from Leonard Cohen

 

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