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.
Frosted mountain wings
ripple across horizons
silver winter clings.
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.
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?
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!
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
I ponder reflections of reflections,
memories opaque as an ice fern lost
in a misty wasteland.
I wait to unfurl a dawn slate.
Note:- the end words of each line are anagrams, ‘reflections=ice fern lost’ and ‘wasteland =dawn slate’.
They say the weather in Scotland is unpredictable- typically four seasons in one day but at this time of year it’s mostly the wet stuff!
April showers
Are here again
And I can hear the loud thunder
Also
By Aldo Kraas
When April showers,
I shower with her.
Daffodils dance
As we make love
like paper into origami.
My driveway
Becomes a lovers’ lane.
By John Peter Creighton
We are all born to die but for me
it’s my sole purpose. Survival
to the grand finale is impossible.
You can barely call it a walk-on part.
I spend the first act cutely vulnerable,
reclining on the designer sofa, a perfect
enhancement of the minimalist set.
Suddenly
I am catapulted from the balcony
of a high-rise apartment, so unseemly
and messing up my hair.
In my last scene I’m Jackson Pollocked
on the sidewalk, a splattered composition
in red, black and pink. You hear the wail
of violins. It’s a shocking tear
-jerker moment, murder by my lady’s
sweet-talking lover but how else
would you know he is a serial killer?
There will be no happily ever after.
But I still have my American dream,
last minute rescue by SuperPuss streaking
rooftops with a rodent between his teeth.
After sunset we will wander Central Park,
lapping lattes and gazing up at the stars.
Remember aching
blue doves
in concrete spaces.
The Purple Hermit 