Smorgasbord

Smorgasbord, and so
Health,

A dashboard of delights.

Supine could be;
Relaxed on a hospital bed,

Goose down,
Luxurious but bad for your back,

Foam,

Sometimes current but initially,
Uncomfortable,

A sister healed,
A discussion beyond Mum,

Silver hair framing,
Ice-blue eyes,

Wrinkles round a mouth;

Ripe fruit is determined by smell, and
A mango,

Will flood a kitchen with colour.

Who are you now,
Riding on the upper deck to Luton with,

The Book in your lap and,
The Wind in your hair?

Why are you a mango,
Ripe to eat?

When love is alive, or
Dying,

Aroma disperses into cupboards, is
Dispensed across sofas, and

Out walking I thought,
A million dollars can change everything.

– have your wings clipped but clip them yourself,
spoof your location, so health.

Angels are born everyday.

Published in: on August 27, 2015 at 01:09  Leave a Comment  
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Red Ink

Short poety, works move, out and about Africa

I.

We used to receive, in West Germany, handwritten letters from friends in Soviet Russia.

Mail was read by censors so we established a code;
If written in blue ink,

True,
If red,

False.

Letters would arrive,
All written in blue;

Everything wonderful, stores full of food,
Apartments large, weather is good.

We just cannot buy,
Red Ink.

II.

So then I was moved by,

The shoddy silhouette,
Cut into concrete,

Of three bedraggled figures;
One woman, one man,

And a frail old lady.

The woman,
Cradling a baby swaddled in yellow rags,

Called the man, ‘…Husband.’

The man was the old lady’s Son,
And was weeping bitterly on his mother’s shoulders but,

The schooner had not failed this time,
And she was finally here,

On the dock,
Cold and withered and whispering to her son,

Grandma will be happy to learn the new ways,
Of feeding her children, soup!

Korea.

♦photo♦ yeyeolade.wordpress.com

evocative short poetry

Published in: on July 1, 2015 at 07:05  Leave a Comment  
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Morning Come

1819274www.webstockpro.com

Your thoughts are on pink.

Pink elephants with floppy ears,
Pink polcadot pillows,

Pink rabbit-eared flip-flops with,
Non-slip soles,
Pink cereal,
Pink hair bobbins, and
The bright pink coffee shop,
You would take her to,
To apologise and review,
Her new pink shoes.

Why must everything be so loud?

Bedraggled mops slop over,
Tired hospital tiles,
The mobile phone on the bed-side table,
Won’t stop vibrating and the,
Bed-springs squeal,
Each time you move.

The smell of antiseptic will not overcome,
The stench of sweat on soiled sheets nor,
Iron in new blood,

Hush,

Nine months of nausea,
Nine months of chocolate,
Will come your way again,

Hush.

Morning come,
Morning come.

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 17:25  Leave a Comment  
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