Musings of lost childhood whilst gazing skyward

I've been challenged recently in trying to work out the essence of a good haiku. There are so few syllables to play with that each word is so important. It seems difficult to be able to portray a whole image. But I was inspired by gazing at a blue sky filled with clouds, the kind of sky which I would stare at as a child whilst laying in sweet summer grass and just taking in the vastness of the heavens.

I was reminded of those childhood feelings of being part of nature and of life stretching out slowly in front of me.



Corona clad clouds,
Yearning for lost youth drifting
In herringbone skies.

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Another light-hearted poem, this time about bank robbery

All he was good at...

When Robin Banks were nought but a small boy,
In short-leg trousers and public school cap,
They pondered what source of gainful employ
There could be for such a talentless chap.
Assiduously able to destroy
Any project on which his hand did clap,
His genius often would they deploy
To chores they'd not mind when he caused mishap.



He tried his hand at countless professions
But somehow he lacked the requisite nous
To make any kind of good impressions,
Successive bosses their ardour he'd douse
Through incompetence and indiscretions.
He chopped the wrong trees and milked the wrong cows,
He'd clear the wrong house in repossessions -
He seemed clearly destined for the workhouse.

One day a gent in sharp suit and cravate
Rode into town on a shiny black steed,
Burst in the saloon and took off his hat
And with his stashed cash "Free bar!" he decreed.
He worked round the punters, charming with chat.
When Robin he met his long face queried,
"I'm Robin Banks," Rob said, "All I'm good at..."
"What luck!" the gent exclaimed, "Just what I need."



Rob listened with awe as the gent relayed
Tales which were surely pure fabrication,
Of adventure and crime, handsomely paid,
which he soon was to find weren't invention.
Reckless natured, a good gangster he made,
So hungry to get retaliation,
The town's folk who'd scorned him were now afraid.
He'd finally found his true vocation.

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A light-hearted ballade

My last post was a week ago and I'm starting to get itchy! I've been really busy with one thing and another, plus I've been hunting out some new poetry challenges since the Guardian Poster Poems have sadly ceased (which helped me write a few of my earlier poems on this blog).

The challenge I found was to write a ballade on the theme of "Escape". I also set myself the additional challenge of writing something light-hearted. There is a reference to a famous 60s film (which I found incredibly strange when I caught a few minutes of it the other day).

I suspect that it may seem a bit disrespectful, but it really is meant in a lighthearted way...




St. Pollyanna tries her escape:

His mighty works to understand,
To convent foolishly I sped.
Far from finding the promised land,
In me a vile depression spread,
To dull the pain on whisky fed.
Much Devil’s water did I scoff,
And slept face-down in flowerbed -
Stop the world, I want to get off!

From the nunnery I’ve been banned
For secret prayers to Spanish red -
I’ll never sit at God’s right hand!
“Give us this day our daily bread.”
“No! just give me Christ’s blood”, I said,
“It makes you blind it tastes so rough,
Slow poison which Our Lord has blessed.”
Stop the world, I want to get off!

To oblivion I had planned
A journey ending live or dead,
But no escape could I command!
Slowly waking, my swirling bed
Instills in me a sense of dread,
Wine for breakfast is not enough
To help me face the day ahead -
Stop the world, I want to get off!

Prince of spirits, grant me instead
A stronger drop (perhaps Smirnoff?)
To send me back out of my head.
Stop the world, I want to get off!

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Lacking the necessary espression

I walked up to the counter of a small branch of a famous coffee shop (better not start naming names) this morning and asked for an espresso. Simple enough. Or so you'd think...

I'd been to this place before and last time the woman behind the counter had kindly shown me the tiny cup and explained that it was very strong, clearly expecting me to realise what a silly mistake I'd made and that I'd instead ask for a nice fluffy girly drink in an oversized mug with choc sprinkles or marshmallows. "No just an espresso please," I replied, "in one of those tiny cups". I declined the offer of milk, frothy and otherwise, and smiled sweetly to reassure her as she handed over my little cup of pure evil, still unsure as to whether she was giving me the right thing.


This second time I could feel, as I approached her, that it was going to be a similar battle. Today I was very tired, I really needed the caffeine fix, I had an important appointment to get to and a lot to do, I was soaked to the skin after half an hour walking in driving rain. I wasn't really in the mood to have to explain what I wanted, considering I was using the exact word which was printed on the large menu hanging above the counter, which should surely be easy enough with such a limited menu? But I was out of luck.

"Can I have an espresso please?" I asked wearily - weary from my journey and with anticipation of the confused exchange which was about to happen. "Just plain?" she asked, "Or do you want it skinny?"... I was rather taken aback by the skinny option being offered for an espresso. I'm not really sure what skinny means. To be brutally honest I'm not sure she did either. Maybe it means with-milk? I decided to avoid the word completely, "Yes I'd like it plain please". No Milk, I thought, good.
I started to get the feeling that she'd not really been listening to me when she started crashing around with milk cartons. Some people think they know best, like those hairdressers who give you the cut which they think suits you and not the one you've asked for. As if I don't know my own hair or my own palette, I've lived with them both for 33 years - I know what I like and I'd really rather like to have what I want. It's misplaced benelovence I suppose, thinking they know best, but what happened to the customer always being right?

"Do you want skimmed?" she chirped over the buzzing coffee machine. "I don't want milk thanks, just plain." This caused some confusion and a palpable air of incredulity from behind the counter, "But you asked for it skinny!!". Trying to remain as polite as I'd been brought up to be, although in my mind I was beating her around the head with a very small cup, I replied "No I didn't, I asked for it plain."

How am I supposed to know what the coffee-speak is for without-all-the-fancy-stuff-you’re-trying-to-make-me-have? And what hope was there for me if she didn't know the coffee-speak for a rather popular type of coffee?


I continued very patiently to explain that I would like a strong black coffee in a small cup. This had to make sense surely? Maybe she would even shake her head at me and ask me if I wanted an espresso then... that would be progress. But, no, the connection was lost. I was handed a normal (regular) sized black coffee and begrudgingly paid for it, mumbling that if I'd wanted an Americano I'd have asked for one - I know that much coffee-speak!

Now with literally two minutes for my coffee break and a very hot coffee to drink I was rather despondent. How lovely it would have been to have had a strong sweet shot instead of some coffee flavoured water! So I took a few sips, roughly an espresso's worth, and carefully returned my cup and saucer back to the counter on my way out, secretly hoping that she might be left wondering to herself, if all I wanted was a few sips, why didn't I just ask for one of those strange miniature coffees instead?

A bigger picture...

Here's the full version of the sculpture I pictured below - it's called the Mud Maid. I think it's so beautiful because she's at one with nature and her appearance changes with the seasons. Her hair is grass and she's clad in plants, so she has more or less of this depending on the season and she's weathered so she could have been there for eternity. I'm sure she could inspire some more verse...

The Earth Mother

The earth mother awakes and
Snuffles in the dirt for her baby.
She can feel his weight in her arms,
She can smell his honey hair
Touched to her face as she whispered
Her soothing love into his crown.
She remembers staring into him,
Seeing his need mirroring her own
in his wide eyes, rarely blinking.
But he is gone. And she is desperate.
The forest echoes with her cries
Guttural sobs rising from empty womb
Refracting through trunks and branches
Converging into one mournful wail.
With swollen eyes raised to the canopy
She pleads to her god with rasping implore
To return her to her whole again, for
He is gone. And she would go too.




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Night

Another post to the Guardian Poster poems. It's becoming an obsession, but hopefully a learning curve too. This one I've tried not to rhyme...

NIGHT LIFE:

The Moon spills its milky light
From its small pocket in vast denim sky,
Intermittently crossed by translucent clouds
Obscuring its blank marble face.
Extending its spindly pale fingers
It snatches into depths of darkness
Reaching wherever it is allowed
By the blaring man-made globes below.
They pierce the gloom, but remain silent
Unwilling witnesses to harsh scenes
Illuminating the noisy streets
Mute as the moon drifting hopelessly above.
Darkness swells around artificial shields
Under which the revellers clash,
Shining bright peacocks in vivid clothes
Sucking lurid potions through pugilist lips.
Men in checked shirts and sunday shoes,
With cigarattes dripping from loose fists,
Women with brassy bangles and glassy jewels,
They meet to fight, the night their battleground.
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Less a poem more an outpouring...

The Guardian poem section this week is about "walking". I've had a lot to do this week and I've not been able to take time to really think about imagery and the right words to use, so instead I went for an outpouring into a tight structure. I'm going to add it anyway. Nothing ventured and all that!

I felt I'd represented the emotion anyway.

SHE AND I:

We walked here, She and I, when we knew no worry or worldly care,
Except where we would end up when we reached the place we knew not where.

We walked here, She and I, when we would share our childhood day by day
And in shadow of growling hills and besides glistening brook would play.

We walked here, She and I, when we confided each our teenage fears,
Voicing secret thoughts and dreams, interweaving our lives through the years.

We walked here, She and I, when we cleansed ourselves in timeless beauty,
Unaltered over the years whilst we'd assumed each adult duty.

We walked here, She and I, when we no longer found ourselves alone,
Chiling shadows falling on her, threat'ning to numb her into stone.

We walked here, She and I, when we knew that we would walk no longer,
Hearts breaking beyond all measure as death's claim on her grew stronger.

We walked here, She and I, when we sought solace in her final hour,
Bittersweet memories of beauty lived which we would share no more.

We walked here, She and I, when she lived again in colourful dreams,
Sadness soothed by embrace of green hills and sweet song of whispering streams.

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GUARDIAN POSTER POEM - Me breaking the ice...

I wrote this really quickly because I wanted to post a poem to get started before they changed the subject again, but I know I could have done it a lot more justice if I'd had some time... I just wanted to break the ice and do this for the first time...

Growing old for her:

I watched her pass, she died so young
And I promised her I'd carry on
I'd live my life for both our sakes
So she would never truly be gone.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm growing old
In the mostpart just for her not me
It's getting harder day by day
To fight the grasp of frailty.

Behind closed eyes I see her still
In vivid colour and awkward peace
Forever framed in time and place
But tranquil in her sweet release.

Her serenity engulfs me too
And I find the strength to pursue my task
Of growing old as I think she'd want
But "How am I doing?" I long to ask.

**

First attempt...

PROPHET:

Glint in his eye
Burning red
Sharp spears
Aiming deep
Into the conscience
Of the people passing by.

Accusation in his finger
Gnarled and pale
Kept rigid
By hope and fear
Pointing like an arrow
At the world.

Conviction in his voice
Telling the ignorant
To guard the future
Well-worn words
Startling, yet
Bland through use.

Indifference in their faces
Meagre audience
No tolerance
Listening, but
Not hearing
Just killing time.

He has a vision and a mission
A message of reformation and redemption.

Desperation in his bones
Sitting hunched
On the pavement
Feet in the gutter
The lights of the cars
Glinting red in his eye.

*

Just starting out...

Welcome to my blog. A little bit of poetry from one a bit green behind the ears.

Hopefully you'll see some progression on here if you come back from time to time.

ALL comments welcome...

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