The Cuckoo and the Kittycat

The Cuckoo and the Kittycat

If only I could see way up in the cuckoo tree,
this would turn out to be one of those silly rhymes
about life, round about.

I maybe can climb it, if I have a little courage
and no fear of heights.

Sit, bounce back on the bough,
bring a cushion,
make myself a little platform.

Sing better than a mockingbird,
which it is a sin to kill, strum guitar
when the night is still.

Later still,
add a few walls, or not if the clime is good,
bring some rope, blankets, a little firewood.

String up a line; catch carp in the nearby lake,
kick off my shoes, toes in turf,
flick them round, flat against the solid of smelt earth.

Punt myself across in a pea green boat,
pretend the Lady of Shallot, dead but afloat.

I’d cook with a squiggle and brush with a hare
and eat with a runcible spoon, my dear,
and eat with a runcible spoon,
by the light, by the light,
of a silvery moon.

Luminal

Luminal

Liminality,

the smell of onions,

shuffle, push of spatula,

as Babcia raises the flame

on the hob.

The state between cooking and eating,

the mouth and the stomach.

A snowstorm on the way,

a state of unknowing,

180,000 people stuck in airports,

seaports, claustrophobia chunnel,

pupal anticipation

and fear from the birth of the storm.

Stephen King’s, The Mist,

it is the not knowing,

the state of flux beyond the supermarket,

glass of beyond.

And what if it is worse and never gets better,

if the mist never clears and what if all that is left

is a mad woman screaming apocalypse?

Birthing is the most dangerous time,

fear is liminal,

rooted between

and fight or flight keeps us stuck in the meantime,

grabbing and scrabbling over the tickets

they call money.

A rock and a hard place.

Aporia, the state of waiting,

a question asked,

in postmodern constructs of deconstruction,

where answers never come and politicians use

double speak to hang on the threshold,

Tower of Babel making language a lie,

Copenhagen conference and this global warming

will freeze us to death...

Am I awake or dreaming?

Choice and the state of choosing,

ghosts making a decision to live,

not die in the limbo of an unspoken life,

because those who remain too long

are cursed into zombies

and this is not hell but a mirror on the earth.

Twilight worlds can be luminal,

hanging on the sides,

to enter sacred time,

don’t get lost in the entertainment,

of not really real, reality tv,

and the busy process of governments rewriting colourful

histories,

when we British are indiscriminate killers of race.

Gaia spinning, spinning,

as we whirl and swirl caught in

between snowflake space and manmade fake time,

the replica is not real,

it is somewhere in between,

as thoughts are somewhere between

imaginings and creatings.

In quiet places Shrodringer’s cat

snow prints across a bridge,

salt sprays run rattle snakes across roads,

to carry the bride of a new dawn across the border,

into a world where we are innocent until proven guilty.

In meanwhile,

soul somewhere beyond England, not quite arrived in Poland,

held waiting

in transit German space.

Greetings from Poland!

Julian the Fisherman



That Thing about Snow

There's that thing about snow,
don't know much about,
a lass of temperate climes,
nineteen below zero
and frozen nostrils.

Snowstorms on the M25,
pray to stay alive,
in my English world,
snow means stay in,
no driving, huddle and wait until it clears.

But a long trek ahead,
Netherlands, Germany, Bruges
not necessarily in that order,
giggle over road signs to keep spirits up,
driving on summer tyres.

Wanken, Ausfhart, something slutter,
until the storm brings us in to hide,
and a few more nights sleeping in the car,
few hours in traffic don't get far.

Frozen radiator and cold feet,
girls shiver, quiver, stuff lollies to eat,
and loiter in front of gigantic radiator heater,
and off again.

Polish towns covered in snow,
convince trekers no place to go,
then out and all is clear on the road,
until a driver nods and van careers,
slurring towards us.

Jesus Christ!, words expelled,
and he wakes in time and all is well,
crawl on towards Byslaw, nearly home,
drink different flavoured vodka,
bring my cheeks back to roan.

Chatting to Julian across
a frozen lake,
tobogan rides and snow man
coal eyes and ducking in
and out, in and out,
and vodka at noon
and snow angels in the yard,
bring something else I don't know about snow.

Co. Limited words Wednesday -US and GB Ltd.

'Up to 56,000 more contractors likely for Afghanistan, congressional agency says'

Link here for The Washington Post article here - //www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/12/15/AR2009121504850.html?wpisrc=newsletter&wpisrc=newsletter&wpisrc=newsletter

Ah there's nothing like levelling a country to the ground and killing 100s of thousands of people to provide a capitalist venture....

Britian not to be outdone...http://www.corpwatch.org/article.php?id=13385

Wordless Wednesday

Walk in the City/Corporation

Drop the car at the garage and walk home,
because there is no bus and taxi expensive
and in me a need to stretch alone legs,
without the tether of short ones and watching in traffic.

Head along one of the 'better' areas, debris free
and children shouting in the playground,
peer through the local shop, deli delights
but I don't go in, will be expensive.

Round the bend and along and a choice,
up onto the main road or cut across the park,
indecision thoughts, quiet in the grey afternoon
and bushes for lurkers.

Remind myself a life not lived is a life not lived
will be nice to feel the trees,
enter and silence and couple waking their springer,
cutting up into intersection and a steep hill,
bench sit and flick The Big Issue.

Spots, splitter, splatter, aware I look strange
reading in the rain, breath back, butt in bin,
get up to follow white macked lady and scruffy dog,
feel like a pacing giant behind in bover boots.

Gaining, a quiet turn in the woods,
feel like a stalker and fear as I close in behind,
say 'hello' as I pass, reassure and relief,
head out onto the road.

Signs and gravel shift sound of traffic,
orders, red stop, green go,
Do Not Park Here,
Equinox, lined directions, black on yellow,
sounds inspiring.

Purple lucozade empty splat and I cut across the road,
ignore herding grills and jump onto turf,
more paper rubbish, nearing home.
Cross, another instruction, something of interest.

Says 'Plymouth Corporation Tramline 1923', in stone.
Not Plymouth City, second time in weeks I have seen this,
google search reveals nothing, but The Guardian advertises jobs
for The City of Plymouth Corporation and The City of London Corporation,
follow the link - http://jobs.guardian.co.uk/job/939724/think-family-coordinator/

What do I think?
That my city, my life and the world is a corporation,
that I am afraid to walk in parks but not in the woods far from the city,
that one area of the Plymouth City Corporation feels safer to walk, than the
other with its rubbish, drunk, drugged in the morning, graffiti and homeless.
That for someone somewhere, I am a number not a name,
that just because there is no branding on my skin,
does not mean I am not owned.

I walk on, rain starts coming down, misting my glasses,
and Equinox is revealed as the marketing office of a corporation,
wonder briefly why house builders have a road sign,
the chemist in the village is friendly and warm and recognised,
I cut down side streets, offer a man struggling with his shopping a hand
and cross the road home.

Little Trees

Hands that do dishes can be soft...

"Lets hold hands"
from the mouth of babes,
"and then we can..."
running forward, chests out
to catch the red
swath of scarf balanced between the 'radiogater'(radiator)
and my hand, as instructed,
a winners' tape for runners,
"Let's hold hands" she says,
turning to her disappointed sister,
rubbing across her chest in emptiness,
"then we can both win."


Imagination will make...

Babel, babble
the strike of similiarity
of words linked to confounding
and contention,
when shared languages were lost
and scattered in the wind,
because imagination can create
what it will.

And knowledge bitten from
ripe fruit, can create
a slag heap of rotting nappies,
where I am guilty as charged,
and ideas which bear fruit,
run prophesies of the future
without Eden.

To the red of half bitten
apples in alleyways, burnt out bins
and the mutilated branches,
sealed, to prevent the growth of trees.