The Long View

Hmmmmm, I wrote about the view from my window in hour six, so I'm going to remember the view from my tower block office, at the top of a very steep hill. The 'ugly, lovely town', is Swansea, now a city, as described in that quote by poet Dylan Thomas.

The Long View

You can almost see the earth
from this D-block
window on the twelth floor.

You can watch
the buses pull up
and pull out
destined down toward
the ugly, lovely town

You can join the gathering crowd
peering down into a bedroom window
watch an in flagrante couple

the lady cleaning up
discarding the tissue
from their open window.

Strange Sweet Laughter

This poem is actually about Mopsy, the very first cat in our family, who lived to be a grand old lady of 19 and was named after the rabbits Mopsy, Flopsy, Cottontail and Peter, in Beatrix Potter's The Tale of Peter Rabbit. :)

Strange Sweet Laughter

You will be remembered
you will be missed
as sure as this
time next year will come around again
leaving victims of the verb
to be Decembered.

Neither taken by the hand nor kissed
one more casualty of the vain
hope that New Year will change
tomorrow's game
and fortune will raise a glass
and join us getting pissed
or partaking some other herb or poison
to transform days
into daydreams.

With strange sweet laughter
like water
stretching beyond the horizon
and the sunset after
evening glitter caught your eyes
and all else ceased to matter.

You will be remembered
amongst driftwood memories
dashed on rocks.
You will be missed
and every sigh that passes lips
along with breath
will echo with your voice,
never lost.

The Art of Wearing a Dress

I'm using the descriptive text on the Wiki page about this painting, which provides a lot of description. I do enjoy writing ekphrastic poems, responding to the painting's title and description. I feel the Madame in this painting is the kind of Bond girl who would appear in the novels of Ian Flemming.

The Art of Wearing a Dress

spies love a lady
who wear dreses
with a mind of their own
ready to fall
from the shoulder at the hint of a glance.

In a room of mysterious shadow
the skin can sing
a siren song
if the dress possesses
an equally dark soul.

Baby’s First Bathtime

This is only a short poem so it's not overly loaded with exaggeration, but pro rata to the protagonist's size, I suspect it's certainly got in its money's worth.

Baby's First Bathtime

I'm drowning
you bastard
get me out of here
you mongoose
there are no nerves in your elbow
can't you hear
I'm in pain
bloody blisters
I can feel them forming
it's fucking burning
and I'm normally
such a sweet tempered boy.

smile for the Camera

I read this in a newspaper a little while ago, about an octopus that photographs visitors to her tank. I've not done a very good attempt at this poem though.

Smile for the Camera

Rambo resides at Sea Life
eyeing up her subjects
to fit them in the frame.

Waterproof camera at the ready
eight legs feeling for the shutter
say cheese, or fish


of the octopus kind.

Maggie, Cat of Kepler

This was news in 2015, a planet called Kepler 452b was considered very earth-like and potentially capable of supporting life. My old cat, Maggie, who I had to leave in Rochester, NY, would love being in a weightless environment, so I let her clib abroad a satellite orbitting station.

Maggie, Cat of Kepler

She loves this weightlessness,

has learned to shoot herself around
gracefully anchoring tostrategic surfaces
to watch imaginary fish
swimming in the blackness.

Orbitting above
Kepler 452b,
Earth 2.0
an intergalactic restraining order
keeping it human-free

A ping-pong ball drifts past,

thwacking it so it bounces around the walls
she calmly ducks
to let it pass by her on its circuit
like a tiny moon.

White Hairy Monkey (Fu Ding Bai Mao Hou)

I love teas, my favourite being the Chinese white teas, which are the top 2 buds of the tea plant, which are left to dry in the sun, with no roasting. White teas are caffein-free. The White Hairy Monkey tea of this poem was what I drank at my first pamphlet launch, at Waterloo Tea in Wyndham Arcade, Cardiff, Wales.

White Hairy Monkey (Fu Ding Bai Mao Hou)

Brethren of Silver needle,
a pale sweetness enveloping
that opens to yield umami in droves
when strained from my green

Yixing clay teapot,
its frog lid
guarding its secrets.

Why Me?

I've been pondering writing something like this as a prose piece, but there's no reason it can't work as a poem. It is, sadly, the true story of my life, and how my losses are so small.

Why Me?

The question I never asked,
when diagnosed Type 1
when the vending machine arrived
hooking me on the sweet stuff.

As one eye's loss
killed my perception of depth,
depositing me on my arse
looking back at sidewalk kerbs.

When the right eye followed suit
and kidney failure ensued,
and immunosupressant drugs
let brain lymphoma in.

Why me did not apply,
until lymphoma finished off Emily at age 19,
leukemia my classmate, Chris, age 14
when I finally asked, “Why me?”

Why the fuck am I still here,
why are they not?
my trials essentially self-inflicted
theirs most certainly not.

I made cancer look
like beating it was a stroll in the park,
I would have given anything,
to be in their place.

The Caffeinator

I really struggled with this prompt. I don't really know any famous movie characters that well that I can use their typical wordings, without which it's hard to write in that character's voice. I was about to give up and go off-prompt, but then I remembered a visit to a coffee shop in the town I live in Wales, where a female police officer popped her head around the door and produced the folowing scene, very reminiscent of Arnie, so I've used that. This scene relates to the female Terminator in movie 3 of the series. I'm afraid I've not done it as a personna poem but hopefully that's ok :)

The Caffeinator

The street surges against my back
until the doors
to yield cappuccino.

Tables full of half term kids,
the steam machine
wheezing like and asthmatic air raid siren.

And the policewoman came in,
in search of something,
leaving like the Terminator,
“I'll pop back later,”

leaving the frothing milk
to breathe again.

Tap Dancing

I love re-telling ancient myths in modern settings. I've done a couple before and have one in mind to re-tell the story of Eros and Psyche, with Psyche being blind rather than blindfolded. I struggle to think of how to re-set that one though, so I'm turning to a different myth for this hour — the story of Narcissus, who falls in love with his own reflection in a lake.

Tap Dancing

Time slows down at the dripping tap
where a yelow hose lies limply
uncoiled like a snail-trail
leading back to a green shell.

An adolescent
sent to dowse the plants

Cheekbones and nose
captive in the graceful reflections
to rest
blinklessly gazing back at the sky

Tap Dancing

Time slows down at the dripping tap
where a yelow hose lies limply
uncoiled like a snail-trail
leading back to a green shell.

An adolescent
sent to dowse the plants



cheekbones and nose
captive in the graceful reflections
to rest
blinklessly gazing back at the sky

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