The Poetry Marathon

Bottom (REDACTED) aims high

Aiming too low

Patsy quickly diminishes her (REDACTED)

He’s not slow in (REDACTED) forward

Firm love set in phone’s fantasy

He (REDACTED) closer in time

But it’s (REDACTED) imaginary on the line.

It’s not a truth serum

I reassure in the first instance

You won’t make me quack like a duck?

You inevitably reply

Only if you want to

I smile

Nor will I get you to eat an onion

thinking it’s an apple

But this still doesn’t satisfy

What if I’m not able to go under?

Under what?

I reply

Do you use a pendulum or watch?

Would you like me to?

My tone even my eye contact unwavering

You breathe, you close your eyes

I hypnotise

I’ve decided not to come out

Jam, cream and scones

are more delicious in the dark

The closet doesnt quite close

I can still see you

If there’s a power cut

I won’t be afraid

if it floods

i’m off the floor

its where i meet my monsters

for cups of tea and chat

I’m safe here in the closet

hiding the unpleasant parts

of my personality

While here I have decided to bond

with a toothless troll and a large rat

On top of the plastic viking hat

The one with horns

That sits over the newton’s cradle

On top of the antique roll desk

Is a gold tinsel tiara

Child size – magical

It’s a good thing I have a small head

WHAT IS LOVE?

(In homage to Adrian Henri)

Love is burning the blueberry pies

Love is a uniform seen by blue eyes

Love is not having to worry about your size

Love is

Love is linking lighting to an amateur stage

Love is the wind blowing over the waves

Love is valid, no matter your age

Love is

Love is making the bed on time

Love is the shopping, standing in line

Love is the poem with or without rhyme

Love is

Love is coffee love is tea

Love is tickling the dog’s belly

Love is you and love is me

Love is

It’s said his lips are stained

With beet juice he drinks every morning

So smart in his jacket and tie

The heartthrob of his own imagination

In the heart and heads 

Of so many lies a tremor

Fear of his selfish devastation

Turn on the lightbulb

Focus

It’s actually blood

“All my friends are funeral singers” – Sylvan Esso / Califone

They line up, in formation dressed in black and gold

Their harmonies studied their conductor reaches out

Stretching towards each note passed from open mouths

They take care not to step out of the lines

They are practicing to herald my final movements 

I imagine a simple coffin, a few flowers on the top

No grave to throw roses or tulips or dandelions 

but weeds are welcome at my final concert

The songs having been carefully chosen

By all of them together over a few drams

I taught them how to enjoy the single scotch

Carried far from cool islands to warmer climes

How to dance to the speech of foxes

They will not mourn me 

They are practiced in saying goodbye

Seasons drape the shadows of life

The dark corners

Shade of ancient oaks

They hide they protect

Armour against doubt and dread

Seasons drape the shadows of life

Occlusion’s illusions remain

Wind borne particles scurry away

Stripped bare winter’s rough hands

Steal from fall, spring and summer all lost

Seasons drape the shadows of life

There is finality in stillness

Age and time’s pretty knowledge

Blown down the ground’s raw edges

Coughing retching nothing left

Seasons drape the shadows of life

I’m scared of heights

But it’s where all the extras are stored

I’ve been living a very small life contained 

On this plateau

I’ve been told it’s essential 

to learn how to bungy jump

How to zip wire and how to abseil

To see the splendour of other side

Who stole the daffodils by the front door?

I planted them when I first moved in 

Happy jonquils would join them on flowering

But the bed is empty

The soil spread around

My patch of sunshine gone