Daddies and Sweets

It’s
drizzling today – but at least it’s warm.
I sit, legs
dangling on the sandstone garden wall.
I am trying hard,
to make my final sweet
last, until tea time
yet I somehow
doubt it will.

There’s
a man in with Mama who I don’t recall
ever seeing before.
They
are sitting side by side eating strawberries
I really hope they
save some for me.
Their voices are low – but every now and
again,
I can here Mama laugh.
She doesn’t laugh that
often – I guess
that’s how I notice it so, when she does.
I swallow my sweet, feeling annoyed with myself
for being so greedy.

I wish they would hurry up and finish whatever
it is, they’ve got to say.
Eventually I hear the sound of the
front door being
rattled open.
Sometimes in the really wet weather
the door sticks –
Mama hit it with a pick axe once, made
no difference other than it broke the handle.
For months afterwards we used a spoon
to turn the lock until finally an old friend
came to fix it –
‘free of charge’ Mama said!

Finally
side by side out they came  – he looked full of himself to me.
Mama acted  all surprised on seeing me.
Can’t think why – she had told me to sit
there.
She
started making funny head gestures towards the house.
I jumped
down from the wall – but not before
the man  had
strolled  towards me.
I could smell
those strawberries on his thick beer laden breath.
He took some sweets from his pocket, holding them out to me.
Mama
nodded for me to accept – so I took them.
My fingers
soon expertly rummaging
in amongst the bright coloured wrappers
looking  for my favourite.
Some of Mamas words  got a
little lost as I unwrapped the sweets.
However, I think I heard
her say
‘Mary, say hello to your
new Daddy’.
I smiled – at least this one brings me sweets…

Poppy ~xx~

 

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We Are Sorry

How the Seasons, always
they do separate
when comes the time is final.

To leave us only, with their absent faces
falling swirling
caught between the brittle branch
of man, and wind.

Red random now, are those petals poor,
through
thoughts of tears
that bury deep, beneath our hurried feet.
In blacks and whites of reason
whose distance far divides
in what tomorrow strives to bring.

And, when the mornings, sunlight smile,
diluted in it’s length of stay –
shall dim to fade.

We, will offer no more
understandings of this fight.

But in words of empty, shallow ending days
I hope you understand:

We are sorry for your loss.

Back Room Smiles.

Back Room Smiles

She is the vividness
mantled
around impure prisms
of engaging fire fly light.

Assumptions – predetermined
flicker past her tissues
lonely layers.
The ghost of something, one
day lost
treads in shadows by your side.
She, always politeness

concealed features
playing frivolous games.
Make believe – the touch
of something dark, rubs eyes
closed shut.

Origins of back room
innocence

absurd in their self-satisfied glow
of naked, adulteress smiling…

Moorland.

The clouds suck in –
The wind, soaring its passage
venting her untamed
bleak of moorland self destruction.

How bends and nods the cotton grass
flimsy in their slight fluffed bobble hats.
Hunched reduced, against this their
barren back drop of existence.

The sun put to bed – long before her
face she aired –
Dreary this place of home
where the sound of faceless
moorland birds, split
to open, the deadening rush of winter’s
strident progress.

Tampered down
the fading heather beds
like purple pitted bruises
sweeping imposingly
still with a view
to catch the seldom wanderers eye.

Home
Home calls the final residing guests
as to their wings they beat in flight
far – far away.

Broken back of moons half light –
growing:
Of dog fox barks, and owls that
screech the tongue of fear in man.

So, we shall withdraw
waiting on spring – hopeful on the arrival
of old friends made.
Deep regrets in those extended sighs,
for the acceptance of many
that we know,
we will never greet again…

 

Poppy~xx~

September 2015

Foolishly Alone.

The grass rubs cool
beneath my waiting feet.
I touch the vacant, once sanguine spaces
now lonely between my finger tips

I listen as you speak, softly “goodnight”
varied only by the rise – of her touch.
I can hear the voice of my own voice
needing to know
what made this
a goodnight.
Then you are gone
shadowy about my vision.

The sweeps of light undo me
a sharp pain, pins
me to the earth.
I want to take the warmth from your hands
cradling it about my body –
but chances come
to go – of that I now, do know.
Yet still I can recall, from my memory of memories
how foolishly I let ours go…

Poppy ~xx~
June 3rd 2015

No Say.

Do they scatter flowers in hell?
I am anxious and both pitied to discern.
Their exquisiteness climbs my memories wall
their perfume, crafts you effortless to recall

Shall you miss our relationships desire?
Think of me when night, wraps cold
its friendless frame.
I know I made you smile, if only for the moment
then a moment, sometimes lasts a life.

I fear the cold abstract progress of life
knocking ever explicitly at your door.
How soon –
I ask, shall you forget?

Should I lay in heaven or in hell:
Of that, I simply have no say…

 

Poppy ~xx~

May 6th 2015

Soft Brown Earth.

Not for her this slam of day
against those, violet rays that talk
of calmer reason.
For when she hears the trees, who dare
to catch the breeze, then laugh with ease,
she sets aside her mind to bleed.

For all about each season – behind
the windows curtained glass
she watch’s, bridled not for hope
of long, beyond forgotten –
then blown to scatter distant brown
with toss of hand
amid that bed of earth, still warm.

Then all about did listen
as the sun set down her light to drop.
Quietly setting over them; as the day
dropped to her knees.

Poppy ~xx~

1st May 2015

 

Singular.

We sat
side by side, on the lawn
next to the pond
that ran down to your house.

Sitting there together, subversive
in our views – yet never lovers not
to each other.
We wanted to live, see the world
stepping far away from our backgrounds
of persuasion.

Suicide, births marriages, and deaths
unremitting seasons –
Side stepping the foot paths
that led good men to their destiny.

Yet knowing
how the unearthly bonds of our singular
would one day bring us back as one…

 

Poppy  ~xx~
April 11th 2014

Milksop Dew

Dead are the daisies in their
bodies withered –
He of all that milksop dew
how feckless plays his drifters tune.

I wait, how bitter thin I am bitten
as low blows my lovers prodigy.
Left redundant, sea beach stranded
scuttles the storm, on brown paper folded

Dreams are not dealers trinkets
traded to soothe the belief of hungers bite.
I sat you down high tide ebbing
glass bones, inconsequential thoughts
melding to rise –
now hurled upon some other shore.

 

Poppy ~xx~
March 29th 2015