Slap your hand down hard,
Flat upon the table,
In several extended bursts,
To get ‘most anyone’s attention, here.
Slap Your Hand
Tag: poem
Chimney Ghost
Chimney ghost stop wailing,
on this windy day.
I find the noise a-bit scary,
in a mournful kind of way.
With no welcome for you here,
wood stove door stays shut tight.
You want out, go upwards,
‘less you’re looking for a fight.
Suddenly
Scientist:
"Listen Doctor Wong,
You've got it all wrong.
No benefits are gained from 'Chinese medicine' concoctions."
Doctor:
"Blue-eyes, I object.
Counter in effect.
Our recipes are handed down through generations."
Scientist:
"Maybe as you say,
But Mao Zedong had his way,
in 1950 driving forward their popularisation."
Doctor:
"Young scientist, think you're hip?
Well, just you regain your grip!
To suggest political necessity and conniving motivation!"
©Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (story inspired by picture)
With special thanks to the Covid-19 Lockdown
Socks-and-Pants
My dearest Jemima Journal,
I am sure you will understand.
It’s time to review that top drawer,
Pull socks-and-pants from a dark hinterland.
Resembling a bloated melange,
Absent form, lacking pairing and folding,
A call for a cull I broadcast,
Cruel riddance applied, not withholding.
They must go! They must go! Go they must!
These relatively old worn-out saggy things.
Slung in the bin and out of my sight,
Before my judgement swings.
Wait, why do I ever feel sentimental,
Over losing cotton or woollen underclothes?
No! I want softness, newness and fresh colours,
To cover my bum, ankles and toes.
(British definition of Pants: men’s underwear – male styling/cut/shape)
St. Michael At The Northgate, Monday Lunchtime Concert.
I’ve not been to one for a while,
A concert at St Michael’s church.
Filled pews on each side of the aisle,
For my sandwich, my knee served as a perch.
I Wore A Leopard Print Shirt
I KNOW what they were thinking, seeing me
wear a leopard-print shirt.
That I was making some kind of statement,
What next, lipstick – a short plaid skirt?
Conservative society (with a lowercase “c”),
You’ve got to stand down, let people be free.
Otherwise…
You validate thugs, to behave how they want.
My advice: mainstream-insiders, just be… nonchalant.
“Ah, but you’re a frilly attention-seeker!”
They say,
“You want us to stare and peek.
You’re an introverted wastrel,
An unnatural freak!”
What did I do, I ask, to generate such hate,
To so stick in your craw and exasperate?
I’m just wearing a shirt of a classic design,
No need to pray, for intervention divine.
“That’s an idea! Strike you down, strike you down!”
Well,
What response to an attitude such as this?
With stoicism,
Since it’s they who free fall,
Into the infernal abyss.
Footnote:
This poem, inspired by a “Hate Crime” experience.
In UK Law, a hate crime definition includes a situation where the offender demonstrates hostility towards the victim based upon the sexual orientation – or the presumed sexual orientation, of the victim.
Heron
Heron, I saw you fly overhead,
To describe better I might say ‘glide’.
I’d overslept, got out late from my bed,
O’er rush hour traffic, your wings spread wide.
That long beak is a good identifying clue,
Then I saw those long legs dangle!
Seeing them, made me smile upwards to you,
From my static, earthbound angle.
Yoshimitsu
I have a psycho pussycat,
Black, green-eyed and middle-aged.
Fusses come with a caveat,
Claws and nips at any stage.
Pologies to Bob
*How many times must a writer revise and edit,
Before satisfaction is grasped?
How many times must the same thing be read,
Before an end can be named?
The answer is countless, infinite and forever,
The answer is insanity comes first.
*Ironically, this whole verse written in one single go.
But maybe it shows?
(Inspiration/explanation: The author is currently caught in a cycle consisting of around 600 words, which form the basis to ‘the beginning’ of a new short story – one completely unrelated to anything Dylanesque. Laid on the bed, dressed in T-shirt and underpants, one slipper on, one slipper off, laptop on lap, I just so happened to shout out the first line of this improvisation – in frustration, to the tune of “Blowin’ In The Wind”. The rest, followed promptly.)
Forever It Rains
Seems like it forever it rains, Seems like it forever it rains, Seems like it forever, it rains, Seems like when I consume chocolate - my weight it does gain.
