24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Jax lives in a wonderful part of Spain, Galicia, with her sainted better half, John and one cat, Freddie. She feels very fortunate to be able to have left the busy life of an employed person, but she is busier now than she ever was. She is currently building 200 meters of dry stone walling, not all at once, creating a garden from half a mountain and plotting and scheming her next creative adventure. She is passionate about textiles and pattern and has been known to disappear into her workroom and not surface for several days, except for food and sleep. She creates items from scratch sculpting concrete planters and moulding beeswax candles. She loves the winter when she can light the wood-burner, pour a coffee and write. This is an impossible task in the summer the weather is too glorious and she loves the outdoors.
Wash away the dust and grime.
Surfaces pitted past their prime
with dirt, smut, muck and slime.
To be unclean is a grievous crime.
Every year my task to climb
scrub, scour, polish the rime.
Between each hour no bells that chime
the long hands of Big Ben in time.
Clearing space.
Stacking stones by size in readiness.
Largest near wall base, smaller further out and fillers (most important) in piles.
Marking batters.
Ends defined with timber frames, sloped for strength.
Base string pulled taught, between nailed markers, an ideal guide.
Choosing stones
The largest first, a flat face creating beauty.
Settled in place on the hardened ground, fillers worked in, stone stable.
First layer
Completed both faces secured and firm.
Ugly stones, rocks packed into core for added strength and durability.
Markers moved.
With each layer the process repeats.
Markers raised, stones laid best face out, fillers inserted, cores packed.
Topping out.
Long narrow stones end on.
Complete this work of functioning art, this boundary of beauty.
Oh my love, my darling love,
and in the words of a well known song,
‘you’re my favourite waste of time’
my opening to the outside world.
My lifeline how you trap me
in knowledgeable clutches you ensnare.
I demand to know how many likes I have for every single share.
Ecstasy washes over me 20 likes, 3 hearts. Whoo hoo
Depression descends, no likes, why don’t they love me anymore. Boo hoo.
Oooh, Jenny’s eaten an ice-cream, well it was a hot day.
And Sandra’s walked three miles and announced it via Nike.
Sarah’s baked a cake from BBC online recipes
And I have liked and loved them all in virtuality.
I must go now and put you down to rest
for it’s crucial for me to sleep unlike you my virtual lust.
Ping, ping, are these more likes?
I’ll just quickly peek and see.
From the painting ‘Coalition’ by Kevin Peterson.
The fox, leading from the front, nose twitching
scenting the cold autumn air for danger,
masked by fumes from distant traffic,
his early afternoon shadow solid.
His demeanour determined a purpose to this journey.
The young girl her blonde curls dance
as she strides out beside the bear, her protector,
bright red woollen jacket matching the goggle eyed hat with tassels,
striped tights and black furry boots complete the image of happiness and warmth.
Safe and secure with her companions.
The bear comfortable walking,
padding softly across the harsh, flat, cold concrete of this man-made path.
At the rear, confident of the foxes ability to lead, he guards his companions.
His size is all they need to feel safe.
There is a sharp taste of late autumn in the air.
Their presence disturbs the small residents of this urban garden
who scurry through fallen leaves that crackle and rustle.
The cold white light strikes the defaced walls that jut into this poor excuse of nature.
The garish graffiti , signed by past painters, hurts the eye and jars the senses a hardened, flat decaying surface.
Untouched and unloved for an age, the artist’s monikers forgotten, they’ve moved on, grown up and left.
The companions, their warmth, determination and purpose pass through this grim scene untouched.
‘Excuse me’ a tiny voice she heard
‘You’re sitting on my beard.’
A large butt cheek she heaved
And the bearded lady was relieved.
‘Excuse me’ a hand tugged on her skirt
‘I’ve fallen and I am hurt’
Blood pooled stickily on the ground
She screamed ‘Is there a Doctor around!’
‘Excuse me’ a frail lady did quiver
‘There’s a dead body in the river’
‘Call an ambulance and the police!’
‘Don’t worry it’s only an old fleece.’
‘Excuse me, not ‘Oy you’ the lady demanded
‘I ain’t gonna tell you now Mrs’ he rounded
‘Manners maketh man’ she scowled at their faces
She turned promptly and tripped over her laces.
There once was a lady that sewed.
Whose clothes were quite a la mode.
Although quite hip
she never mastered a zip.
And all her buttons and fastenings showed.
The air thickens
miasma
Blood orange sun touches mountain
scorches
Vapours curl on eddies
pungent
Flames creep over parched ground
crackle
Building momentum rising
hugging
Trees stand defiant shrubs wither
crisp
Creatures scurry frantic directionless
screams
Fire-fighters scramble water flows
hiss
Steam rises heat dissipates sun sets.
calm
Carrie shivered her chilled skin untouched by the piles of blankets on her bed.
Her pale face bleached by the waxing moon that shone in through the thin cotton curtains.
Mum had made them from a tablecloth bought from a charity shop. They didn’t quite fit.
The front door slammed, she shuddered in anticipation and wriggled further under the blankets.
‘Is mum downstairs? Whose turn is it tonight?’ Her thoughts tumbled through her fear.
Malcolm peered round the door fear scored sharp across his narrow head.
He grinned, pyjama bottoms reached down to his calve the buttons gone on the jacket. A small hole in the cuff where his Dad had torn the fabric.
His exposed scrawny chest showed off ribs which bounced to match his shallow rapid breath.
Wide mouthed grimace hid his true feelings.
His unkempt tufts of hair told of the disturbed hours spent awake in bed.
”Shove over, I’ll warm you up.” He wrapped long arms around his sister’s freezing frame.
”Do you think it’ll be OK tonight?”
”Depends if Mum’s cooked his dinner properly.”
They heard him whistling and tones of feminine softness from their Mum floated up the dark stairwell.
SMASH!. They gripped each others bodies. ”You stupid fucking woman can’t you do anything right!”
Data collected.
At base planned invasion.
Massacre looming.
Heat oppressive builds and grows.
Climate change alters jet stream course.
Mans abuse and theft now shows.
In readiness all objects he stows.
A phenomenon from Sahara source.
Heat oppressive builds and grows.
Veiled darkening sky almost glows
Sand plucked in upward force.
Mans abuse and theft now shows.
Winds whip dust, bar pressure lows.
Fires burst through tree tops, worse.
Heat oppressive builds and grows.
Palls of smoke curl, obscure follows.
Without relief, no rain to endorse.
Heat oppressive builds and grows.
Mans abuse and theft now shows.