Giant

Unexpectedly rising out of the castle top, 
the giant rose, 
furrowing his brow and rubbing his nose, 
just like he might be about to sneeze.

Initially, startled by his appearance,
beachcombers on the sand below,
felt doubly concerned, 
with rapid assessment given to the potential outcome.

“Great giant, God-like seeming in so many ways, 
disturbed from your rest, 
how long have you dwelt beneath this fortress-topped island?”
Asked a self-elected representative, 
as a device for sneeze distraction purposes only,
with no real interest in the giant's circumstance.

“Who said that?” the giant enquired, 
peering down and all around.
“I!” Yelled a young woman, 
squinting upwards at the huge colossus, 
darkly tanned hand, 
held above brow,
acting as a visor to the sunshine.

“Well, let me see … " the giant considered carefully,
"I reckon, give or take a year or two, 
using the Gregorian calendar accordingly as a measure of time ..."
"Do you still feel a twitch,
an indicator for a sneeze?"
Interjected the young woman, 
wise beyond her years.

"Possibly." Said the giant, 
cross-eyed,
wrinkling and twisting his formidable proboscis,
up and down, 
to the left and right.
"Then kindly," said the brave and assertive young woman,
"turn around one hundred and eighty degrees to be sure,
Direct your sternutation that-a-way."

Her rising out-stretched arm and pointing finger,
cut right through the salty air.
©Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (poem inspired by a picture)

Back at the Nursing Home

It all happened three years ago

Yet I remember

Like it was only yesterday

*

My care-worker Kontiki

From French Polynesian Tahiti

Some warned watch her, she’s definitely sneaky

*

Turns out, she had possession of everlasting life

An elixir that turned back the clock

To youthfulness and immortality

*

But she didn’t want it anymore

Asked me, at eighty-eight years old

To curate it off her hands

*

She’d had enough, alive for over 800 years

Said she’d shed too many, embittered tears

And drank enough substandard beers

*

She wanted out, found death avoidance a bore

I agreed, imagining worldly wonders in store

Only three years on, I’m regretful … I ever opened up that door

*

Aged super fast, became bent over, losing all her aplomb

Kontiki died, realising her wish, just one year on

Graveyard bones, opposite Marx, in Highgate, London

*

It’s not what I thought it’d be

This eternity without destiny

In this forever, without sense of urgency

*

©Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (poem inspired by a picture)

Terrestrial Encounter

Visited an art gallery
at lunchtime. I felt less
than engaged with the works on show –
maybe because of stress.

An old lady spied earlier,
now out of her wheelchair,
she came shuffling into the room
as I was leaving there.

Raising her black gloved hand to me,
gently, I placed my hand
in hers and she said something I
did not quite understand.

“I am almost one.” She told me.
I waited, she stroked her
fingers down my fluffy fleece top
and said “I like your fur.”

In return I replied, “Thank you.”
blushed, with some sort of smirk.
At this she smiled, watched me depart.
Break over, back to work.

Is Global Chaos Awareness Simply Relative to One’s Age?

I had a small idea of what was going on
before teen years, but really not so much and
I had no reason to deal with it, directly

At 16 – 21, more idea
but life was busy, I remained occupied, enraptured or stoned
whichever,
what happened out there, I really didn’t share
in

From that point on, I felt the economy squeeze
coming on, effecting me, from out there
I never experienced any sense of freedom from worries about money
No
And work made me miserable

By my late thirties
Personal relationships continued to dominate
and at sometime in my forties
that’s when it changed
like slipping silently through to another plane
of existence

When the world, on a political, economical, social and personal basis
went ultra loopy
And all those things, have been getting worse ever since
I imagine life will be just unimaginably awful
come the next decade

Unless I take action
overtaking events
and begin my second childhood now
quickly becoming comfortably
unaware again
and undoubtedly deceased before
I notice it all going weird once more

We Want Our Road Signs & Street Furniture Clean!

I often feel the urge to clean
Dirty road signs, 30
Speed limit, a fingerpost, route
Confirmation, place name
Or neglected row of bollards

And refresh a telephone box
Sanitise the handset
Sparkle the windows, leave a bowl
Of potpourri on shelf

After all, the obscuring grime
Put there, for some of it
I’m responsible. A visit
Proves so tempting, to squirt
A green, environmentally
-Friendly cleaner and rub
With a soft cloth material

Join me, come on! Just spray, wipe, clean
And go. Let’s do it – yes!
It’s sure to catch on everywhere
Once they see what we’ve done

What Did Elvis Know About the Sex Pistols?

Anything?
At all?

The timing’s quite tight
is my belief:

Elvis, dead
the Pistols rise to fame

His last performance
the summer of ’77

Their first
noted
performance
1976

When did they receive initial airplay
in the USofA?

I am weaned-off
internet search engines
I reckon a guess
is good enough

What would The King
have made of the anarchists?

And they of him?

Let’s imagine
briefly:

“An imagined meeting
a social exchange”

Would an expression of awe determine the looks on their little faces?
Would he have been gracious and expressed warmth?

You might think not
but it could have been

Quickly passing by
feelings of awkwardness

Talk about home
settles everyone

Mom and Pop
Mother and Father

Grandparents
lost and living

A little dog from long ago
the family pet

On impulse
someone suggests a cappella
They do it

Arms resting over each other’s shoulders
although careful not to mess up anyone’s hair

Fist-bumps happen at the end
and “Whenever you’re next in town…”

That’s how it’d go
as far as anyone knows

Looks Like Sunshine

If the plug ever gets pulled
on the internet and the
world wide web collapses
into a silk thread mess

how will we tell the weather?
We’ll look out through our windows
there every morning
we’ll eye the sky

Everyone will learn about clouds again
understand what the hues of red
orange and purple mean
the breeze and the rain

the behaviour of birds
animals and insects
it’ll all become clear and we’ll
feel more connected than ever before

i repeat myself

I wonder of the last meaningful word I’ll utter, mutter,
perhaps merely think of, for that matter,
if I have lost the desire or ability to speak.
As a baby, I know for sure,
repetition formed my world.
Habits grew.
The least most era, spiked around my teens.
But since then, an ever decreasing and spiralling descent has closed in around me
with usage of the same words and phrases, the same dialogues and stories.
My time will come, when without realising I tell my own children,
of an episode I have told to them only a short while before.
I can imagine their patient faces.
Unless, I am able to do an unknown, unspecified thing about this now,
stop all this repeating
and say something new.