We had nothing but rags Bags of old costumes Piled in the corner Of a dusty room Discarded scraps Of forgotten dreams So I taught myself to sew Building a tapestry Of my patchwork life Knees folded on the Chilly bathroom floor Its cracked blue lino Like ocean waves The tattered curtain Tucked up over the rail Learning to navigate By feel and intuition As I frowned Squinting at my needle Trying to get the thread Through a tiny hole In the mushroom-coloured dusk At the awkward age Of thirteen years and one month I wore them out My colourful creations And people stared Admiring and mocking In equal amounts When I grew Good enough That you could see Design in my skilful Manipulation Of throw-away stuffs I sold some For coin, or bartered favours Tailors can be born And they can be made I took commissions If you could describe it The perfect dress I could draw it in my head Then threading your dream Through my careful fingers Seam by seam I could make it Come alive
Work
Telling Times
Wedged into the sofa cushions
Gazing at other people’s parroted opinions
Wasting precious moments on Twitter
My daughter asleep in my lap
Waiting to hear more news
From the hospital
Wondering if grandma
Will need brain surgery
As her Googled symptoms suggest
The paramedics were not optimistic
Though they thought it was just
Concussion at the last visit
Repeating the same tests
Hoping for a better outcome
Can we allow ourselves to believe in miracles?
Or will she, like grandad
Go downhill quickly
Seduced to eternal sleep
By a mundane global nightmare
Transmitted in a hospital corridor
After a fall.
Strange these parallel lives
It is barely a week
Since the last funeral
And already I fear
There may soon be another.
Will my employer be willing
To suspend their disbelief
In the cruelty of the Fates
And lend grudging credence to the notion
One family could be the seat
Of such frequent misfortune?
I cannot say
Only Time will tell
And I continue to offend
That elderly gentleman
Numbing my senses
Scrolling past the paltry nonsense
That passes for news
A political procurer of
Public opinion is protected
By his powerful protégé
After a very public breach of policy
Big whoop. Conservative tastes
Do not lend themselves to
Common causes. He’ll not swing
Unless someone else has something
Sleazier than he can sell
To buy themselves his job
Dead men’s shoes, don’t you know?
The anxiety mounts with each beep of the phone.
We are all waiting
Sick of this virus
And the dread
And the endless grind
Working from home
Trying to focus on the Big Picture
Alongside the minutiae
While kids run amuck in the background
Leap-frogging over the broken and unwanted objects
We can’t yet take to the tip
For a decent recycling
Attempts to home-school abandoned
In the face of reality
They are creating new patterns
In the junkyard of our
Once orderly home
While the pile of dirty clothes
Mounts ever higher
Overspilling the laundry basket.
We have an excuse
We have forgotten whose turn it is
To do chores
All days blurring together
In this strange world of lock-down
At first we were industrious
To a fault
Clearing the decks of any
Half-assed DIY projects
Every evening and weekend
Buying improbable shades
Of garden paint online
Two months in
It’s a matter of sheer chance
If we remember when to put
The bin out.
The phone vibrates with news
And as the hopeful message
Trickles down the airwaves
Past the sleep deprivation
Bypassing nostalgia tinged with fear
To sink slow, clawing relief
Into my foggy brain
I am alerted to a new sensation
The damp embrace of a child
Whose nap time has now
Exceeded their bladder control.
At once I am reminded
It must be a Tuesday.
Bugger.
The bin will have to wait another week.
Shy at retirement
The happy ex-executive
Is finished with their woes –
May quaff another malt
When curling up with slippered toes
Can sit and read the papers
Take his breakfast pipe in bed
And when the press come calling, say
‘Ask someone else, instead!’
The happy ex-executive
Has set his suits aside
To walk the dog in comfort
With no other plans to hide
The boardroom doesn’t matter
As he mutters through his day
No longer forced to listen
To the nonsense some might say
The happy ex-executive
Has time to count his chicks
Now grown and flown and flapping hard
For mortar board and bricks
He sits and sips his coffee
That no secretary bears
And wonders why the future
Hangs so often round his ears
The happy ex-executive
Now pastured and put out
The boredom that keeps looming
Moulds his frown into a pout
At four a.m. deciding
That enough’s enough, ‘tis done
It’s time to join a panel;
Find some new oblivion
The happy ex-executive
No longer sees himself
As more than the reflection
Over mantle, mirrored wealth
And what was it he wanted
When he first took on the role
But to see himself rewarded
For team efforts, on the whole
The happy ex-executive
Is feeling somewhat lost
Unsure that it was worth it
Pensioned off as ‘managed cost’
The marks of market forces
Take a little time to fade
But happy ex-executive’s
Already got it made
Cue to Queue
What is the proper etiquette
For declining to bypass security
Measures by walking through
Perspex barriers two-by-two?
I don’t recall, but forcing the issue
By swiping your card made me
Choose – to hesitate and lock
Us both out, or to cheat
And leave you too little time
To cross the line and make it
To the toilet. In my defence
The cat woke me at 4am
Breaking through the bedroom
Door, my lunch leaked in my
Handbag, forcing me to alter
My commute, omitting the exercise
Portion of the early part of my day
So I was barely awake
And very keen to pee
Somewhere other than the
Carpeted corridor. In short, true
Gallantry’s all very well, but
Don’t do it again.
My bladder may not support
The dilemma.
Feathered Misfortune
What came first, the bird, or the egg?
Well, I spotted the dead pigeon on Monday night
As I was walking down the embankment
Trying not to breathe too many fumes
Still shivering from an over-chilled office
And shocked at the sight of mangled grey feathers,
A broken neck and damaged wings
I wondered if it had been hit by a vehicle
Or disorientated, had flown beak-first
Into a mirrored tower block
Before plummeting to the pavement below.
I had no answers. Nor did anyone seem
Too interested in the fate
Of an earthbound, flying sky-rat.
I walked home, pondering
The funeral rites of a feathered pest.
The next day, passing the other way
I saw it was still there.
Must have been missed by the road sweepers
Or deliberately ignored as someone else’s problem.
That evening, Tuesday after work
I felt sure someone would have mentioned it
And had the bird disposed of
But no.
Nudged off the pavement into the gutter
At the side of the road
Still a crumpled heap. Grey feathers dirty
From the road dust and oil residue.
I walked on.
By Wednesday evening, the bird was gone.
This morning, I took a different route to work
Staying on the bus to the museum
Then walking the few blocks North to the river.
As I passed under a bridge, I saw an egg
Shell cracked, yolk scattered on the ground
Dirty down feathers floating
While trains rattled above, shaking the shadows
A lone pigeon fluttered overhead
As if mourning their loss.
Tied Hands
I wish I could help
But I can’t, I can’t
I lack the autonomy,
Forced to plant
My feet on the bars
Of this creaking fence
And dole out excuses
Of common sense
Last one standing
When they came by
For a cupful of sugar
Took my old man
And waltzed over the hill
I was still standing
Polishing silver
Gonna be standing
Forever, until…
Next time a caller
I’d hoped would be smaller
Tripped on her doorstep
Got carried away
I was still standing
To see to a Mother
Gonna keep standing
Another long day
One time you told me
That things never mattered
Half the amount I
Pretended to say
I was still standing
Alone with no lover
Not understanding
Which words made you stay
Then they came by
With a warrant for searching
Hoping to find
What I’d hidden away
I was still standing
In need of your comfort
No one to hear me
And nothing to say
Turn from the shadows
If you fear to follow
All those who greet us
And pass on their way
I am still standing
Myself and no other
One day I’ll falter
But never today
Fabula rasa
This new life chafes at her
Like fresh skin, stretched
Taut over familiar tenderness
Of an old, raw wound
Nothing fits her now
Not time, nor place
As long-jawed expressions
Must face up to unflattery
And quit sliding into view
Over blank slate
Leadership Training
Welcome dear, to the asylum
Where the grown-ups are not in control
Mummy’s out chasing a rainbow
Daddy is home but not whole
So what do we do with our brother
Who needs to be petted and fed?
Just sisters supporting each other
When parents don’t get out of bed
If you grab a hold by one ankle
Then I’ll take the other and try
To tease out the worst of the tangle
Then soap, rinse and powder him dry
I’m sorry your tummy is grumbly
There isn’t the money for S’mores
I’ll find what I can if you’re hungry
And we’ll have a picnic indoors
I guess we’re not going out playing
While youngest’s a hole in her shoe
I’ve mended the bits that were fraying
But darning the rubber won’t do
Besides which it’s no longer summer
And coats are too short in the sleeve
So even the common’s a bummer
With chilblains it’s better to leave
The exercise video’s starting
We’ll all sit together to stretch
Now reach for your toes if you’re hurting
And think of the rich and the wretch
If we can just keep it together
As family’s good for the soul
There’s almost no storm we can’t weather
To pursue an impossible goal
So try not to pick up your plimsolls
Don’t want anybody to know
If they catch a glimpse of the cardboard
When walking along in the snow
Then mummy and daddy are over
They’d ship us all out to a home
And though there’d be food there forever
We’re better off here on our own
Weather Woman
I am a whirlwind, a whisk of storm
Bustling hustler, shucking pain
I, tornado, brave and warm
Quite immune to storm and strain
Problems scatter at my touch
Tossed aside on threads of steel
Fly to cloudy puffing, such
We pay no mind and bring to heel
Arms outstretched, ten fingertips
Sweep through the tactile charged air
Perched for flight the moment strips
All concern from simple care
I am the calm in the storm’s grey eye
Twister turns a tidy groove
And dancing miles across the sky
No one sees my fleet feet move
