Buses For Women, By Women.

We’re women and we’re bus drivin’,
’round your neighbourhood.
We only take onboard women,
(and girls)
is that understood?

If you’re a man looking,
hoped to catch a jolly ride,
know we’re pleased to taser,
should you try’an get inside.

We’re out to guard against,
malevolence, attack and rape.
Not only here in London,
we’ve spread ‘cross the landscape.

And it’s not just in England,
we’re needed everywhere.
Depots soon common,
through donations and ticket fares.

Opening up across the world,
like a new found faith.
While culture learns to civilise,
women, will feel safe.

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

Shoot!

“you’ve got somethyng to seye? shoot!”
to arthur tolde guynevere.
“i have gotte the world on mute,
therfore youre soundscape ys cleare.”

“well,” arthur bygan, “it’s the whisperyng knights who shift,
sat unsettlyng around the round table –
that awkward over-sized weddyng gifte.”
“from my father!” guynevere loud voiced, yn this fable.

Continue reading “Shoot!”

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)