I wish we had played on all night

 

I wish we had played on all night,
African cowboys with not much,
Else to do,

I wish we had challenged the fish in the sea and,
Called out to the Bison,

My father and his band,
And his,

-strike while the iron is hot-

Jive,

Johnstone, his brother,
On the drums,
Kicking up a riot,

Sarah the lead,
Crooning about her rescue from a,
Very bad man,

Lydia,
Lead back-up,

Flinging in the,
‘Alleluiahs’, and
‘Godda-let-it-be’s!

Samuel,
A doctor dying of AIDS,
Breathing new life into a tin-metal harmonica,

‘Alleluhia,’

Rocking the old man at the end of the bar,
And the couple at the table, fighting with their lips,

I heard it coming when he fumbled the line,
And I wish we had played on all night.

 

♦Thanks to: Meanwhile Back at The Ranch(photo), and Jessie Veeder, whose telling, inspired this poem♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Three trees

 

A brook runs through my Grandmas farm,
That used to carry gold.

My Grandpa
-Benjamin-

Did not yield the land,
To the British, who wanted it dammed.

In 1968, they took him in,
To have his appendix removed,
And Grandma never remarried.

My Aunt Alice,
Was a witch.

She flew in on broomsticks
We never saw,

But heard in the barn,
Where she parked.

She brought foreign sweets that didn’t
Crack our lips,
And told us naughty jokes.

-Oh Pope the Bastard,
Please pass the Custard!-
We’d squeal and never tell,

And feel all grown up and,
Conspiratorial.

Grandma says she died running with
The wrong pack,

That she was knocked from the sky,
By a cross.

Later we learned,
It was a broken heart that did it, that

Grandma wouldn’t accept a,
Jewish man in the house,

So she killed herself.

Mary was dead when we got here,
Her tree is the prettiest.

It’s a large yellow poplar that
Trembles in the slightest breeze.

She was a violinist,
A frail, little thing, who

Is fading away in family photographs.

Irridescent sparrows trill,
Beautiful harmonies,
From skinny branches,

Shielded by the most delicate,
Drooping fronds.

You see, my Grandmother has three beautiful trees,
Growing in her garden,

One for Benjamin, one for Alice, one for Mary.

My grandmother used to sit under these trees.
They’re feeding off the bones she says.

 

♦photo – personal♦

evocative short poetry – words move

The tyranny of doubt

 

When you are born,
You know that you are,
Here to change the world,
And it is good,
And it’s alright,
To do your best.

Then,

You’re checking the curtains,
Just in case,
You run out of sunshine.

 

♦photo – http://www.phuket-info.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Ready to land – Guest post!

 

They’ve dimmed the lights
getting ready to land
service staff buckled down
can’t see me pull out my camera,
start clicking, clicking down the sci-fi lights,
like some Twilight Zone episode
where I’m holding my breath,
waiting.

Waiting for that thing
You know, the thing
the monster
that tormented William Shatner,
sitting in his youthful beauty
beside his slender generic wife
elegant in a slim fitting suit
oblivious to him there
spying the monster on the wing.

Difference is I’m not afraid of the monster
I’ve glimpsed him
every now and again,
ducking away as soon as he spies me.
It’s okay.
Really.
Observing things changes
the way they behave.
We can live with monsters quite nicely.
We’ve just got to keep an eye on them.

I’ve got eyes.
All kinds of eyes
to see all kinds of things.
I’m paying attention.
Even if you are not.
Even if you are sitting quietly
in your seat
in the dimmed cabin
waiting for the plane to land.

 

Titirangi Storyteller

         “…And if a shipwrecked sailor drifted upon my shore I would be in heaven. Would I rather sit on the island? Or on the sailor sitting on the island?…”

http://titirangistoryteller.wordpress.com

evocative short poetry – words move

Pregnant in Dundee

 

She’s a naturally happy person.

The mottled concrete walls of the council block she’s moved in to,
Complement her pock-marked, pink skin.

For a rich person,
She’s ugly.

Kevin is a mousey young man with stringy brown hair,
Recovering from drugs,
And she thinks he looks like a very nice man.

They are playing football on cement outside,
-plants are expensive-
The doors to buildings are painted bright colours,
And stand out against the brown stone that is everywhere.
-talking over vegetables, around a table-

She thinks the young mothers coming in,
To learn how to grow turnips,
Learn how to grow confidence in much the same way.

Dirt sticks in clumps but really clothes come off eventually.

Did you know that people move here from Warsaw?

Makes you wonder what Warsaw is like-
Who’s fault it is that people can’t eat alcohol.

She’s hanging knickers out to dry and telling me that she’s discovered,
She don’t want all the shoes that she got,

And would it do to donate them,
And perhaps, a hundred and fifty thousand pounds?

For a rich person she’s lucky but,
They smile when they receive their checks.

Their blue doors fly open,
And when they say thank you, they mean it,
The money is enough.

Round the back,
The husband is in tears.

See – And he’s richer than they are
♦photo - jared bramblet♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Aphrodisiac

why don’t you?

lift your arms and
heal yourself

stand taller than you
were made

be stronger
than fear

mould dreams into
rainbows

why don’t you
set root and

paint the world
green with envy

you are alive

simplify your needs and
grow wings,

or stand still,
and skin lizards,

decorate yourself
with war paint,

shake off the dust,
why don’t you

uproot yourself and
walk a mile

in any direction you like,

you must at least
try,

To rage against
this idea

that you cannot

and perhaps
the sweat off your brow

will seed
fertile ground,

coat handsome men with lust
for life

become
aphrodisiac

♦photo -webstockpro.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

My name is Henry

 

The place I used to visit,
On bad days,
With yoghurt and spoon,
Is vacant.

The leaves are raked,
Into a neat pile,
By the bench,

And except for the newspaper,
Blowing about in the wind,
There is no-one here.

The river beyond,
Is a murky brown,
Same as it’s always been,

But,

Over the concrete wall,
On the sandy bank,
Is a briefcase.

Is it yours?

My name is Henry,
And I’ve been disappearing for years.

I can’t seem to find my way home.

 

♦photo – webstockpro.com♦
wordpress web hosting

evocative short poetry – words move

And he’s richer than they are

 

And he’s richer than them,
With ragged red hair,

Made his money on skin products,

He’s off to the Zoo on the community bus,
Blue suede and a white scarf around his neck,

He’s going to give a lot of money away,
Because he’s richer than they are.

Up north they speak a different sort of English,
Years of cigarettes have given them all cancer.

The windows are small,
Slits in concrete,

Enough to see through and notice,
Neighbours having tea.

It’s a miserable life without money here,
And under the ceiling that’s peeling,
The old man with cancer,
Who doesn’t like charity,

Is whispering that he’d rather have company.

The two,
Big-boned, raggedy spirited,
Awkward teenage boys playing pool at the youth center,
Though,

Are astonished at the amount the mans says he’s,
Here to give them,

And the thought that,
That shiny new thing could be theirs now-
To keep the roof from falling.

Tell me you wouldn’t smile.

evocative short poetry – words move

Preserving dignity

 

There, my mask is on,
Perfectly concealing,
The wounds on the surface.

I have candy floss,
Bright-pink,
Right up in my face.

The little one beside me,
Wants to play,
Strong man,

Tugging me first to the hammer,
Then to the duck-shoot.

I am sucking in air,
In big gulps hoping,

No-one notices,
The man in the gorilla suit.

I have played the game well.

I rise early in the mornings and take long walks,
Arriving at the plaza for briefcase lunch.

I stroll back past the phone booth at,
Twentieth and eleven,

And call home to say,
I’ll be back by seven.

Today we’re at the fair,
And I’m hoping no-one notices,

The man in the gorilla suit,
Here picking pockets.

 

♦photo – MEG BHA at Gossamer Dreams on WordPress ♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Earthquake

 

Her legs will be amputated but,
Non-collapsible items like,
Book-shelves and fathers
Can make a space to survive.

 

-March 2011 edition of 4&20 poetry-

♦photo – 123rf.com♦linux hosting

evocative short poetry – words move