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)

Like Someone Coming Out of a Trance

Like someone coming out of a trance.
Tie-dye pattern, white, blue and lime green hat.
How I reached this seismic fashion statement,
Known only to Gods and Prophets.
Revelations they're not revealing.

Noticed on the street.
Pedestrians make way, doors held open, traffic stops.
Café coffee refills, merely for a presence.
'Live' advertising,
Eye-candy snagging passing trade. 

Little actual conversation so far, suspect due to shock.
Mouths agape, inside empty car showroom caverns.
Begging paws shaken, offered by upright sitting dogs.
All this life I have felt desired,
But now, I feel valued.
©Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (poem inspired by a picture)

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)

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.

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.)