sign on the door said...

gone out for a while
so don't wait up
scratching the surface of
bamboo and dirt;
soil under fingernails
won't come clean
and
dead, like a battery,
in a cell-phone fatality,
drain the mind off his back
where it cannot be seen.

plugged in and charging
loading, rebooting,
an avatar sabateur
just got him motoring
slow to assemble,
but
quickly resembling;
he faces familiars
redressed in this groundhog
shell,
under the poison tree
discotheque monastery
with
closed-circuit liberty
yelling its knell.




Posted on Poets United Poetry Pantry 141


Postscript:
This poem partly inspired the latest
poem by The Unknowngnome
"Untitled, March 08, 2013."
Read it here.

Monkeylands

In 1978, Ford Cortinas roamed freely around these streets. Ten a penny, a couple could lurch past you before you blinked. 

But on one cold winter afternoon near the end of that year, a Ford Cortina didn't go past Mark. Dark blue and merging with the dusk, it stopped at the side of the pavement for him...               

           ------------------------------------


"You coming to Monkeylands after school, Mark?" 
Kenny Fox whispered it just loud enough for Paula Martin to hear. Her giggle stifled like a trapped sneeze. Foxy was always trying to impress somebody.

The teacher's voice trailed into the distance as faces around the rectangular group of wooden desks shared a look. A look that Mark tried to ignore. A look that meant they all knew that Mark was never allowed out to play after school.

Foxy's question sat at the front of Mark's head all afternoon. Doing his maths workbook wouldn't shift it. When Mrs Lindsay told him off for day-dreaming, he still couldn't concentrate.

Because today Mark knew something else. He knew that his mum had to work late. She wouldn't be back until 5.00. He worked out that he could easily make it back home before then...  

Many times Mark had pleaded with her to let him go. Literally begged. In response her words had always been set in stone: "Too dangerous. You never know who's hanging about there, son." His dad had never been approachable either. In truth, Mark was not usually allowed out of his parents' sight. Aged ten and he felt like he'd been under house arrest his whole life. 

But this afternoon he was going to Monkeylands.

And then a passing blue Ford Cortina was going to slow down at the kerb. Its door was going to open and Mark was going to be taken away...

It was a strange name. Monkeylands. Mark often wondered about it. Played it over in his mind. In primary three, he remembered thinking there might be actual monkeys there. The thought still made him cringe with embarassment.  

Back in his day-dream, Mark decided that he'd simply surprise Foxy, Paula and the others. A picture developed in his mind. He'd saunter up, all casual, and act as if it was completely normal-that he came to Monkeylands all the time. They'd welcome him like the home-coming hero. For the first time, he would belong.

Suddenly the bell shattered his imaginings. Swirls of children cascaded down the stone steps and into the playground. They snaked across the cement and gradually broke into smaller groupings. A couple of boys with blue snorkel anoraks tracked along the white netball lines. They skillfully kicked an Irn Bru can between them. Some girls chatted about the new John Travolta film that their big sisters were going to see. 

At first, Mark found himself being pulled along in the excitement. The steady stream of children flowing out of the school gates eventually became a small trickle. Mark held himself back deliberately to let the others go ahead. He came out past the orange brick gates. As usual, he walked alone.

Hands in his pockets, Mark began to saunter down the hill. It was the opposite direction from his usual walk home.  He glanced at the fussy white bungalows on the opposite side of the road, before his attention was captured as he came alongside a football pitch.

The Ashy was imprisoned by a high metal fence. He'd heard talk in the playground that after school, some older kids sneaked through the broken metal at the bottom of the fence to have a kickabout. As he walked, Mark saw some guys going through. Hearing the ping of the ball against the fence behind him made Mark wish that he could join in the game. Instead he treaded on.  The Ashy melted into the background, to be replaced by row upon row of four-in-a-block houses. 

In time, Mark's footsteps began to drag. Lights were being turned on in cosy-looking front rooms. As Mark peered into one, the curtains were magically drawn.  He began to question himself. What was he doing? What would happen if his parents found out? His earlier bravado, imagining the Clint Eastwood arrival was vanishing into thin air with each heavy footstep. 

Already darkness was beginning to settle itself around the backdrop of houses. After the next block, up to the right, was Monkeylands. Mark stepped off the pavement as if he was part of a chain gang. His heavy feet waded past the final house and its tall spindly hedge. In the space before the next block began was a muddy path that led to his destination. 

Monkeylands was two hundred yards away from Mark.

With his feet squelching, Mark approached the iron gates. Flaking green paint barely covered the rust that was spreading all over them.  The dusk, in its silence, was giving up no ghost of conversation.

Passing through the gates, he panned the landscape from left to right.  And what he saw brought only disappointment.  The sniggers, and the look that Foxy had given Paula came flooding back. It all made sense.

Monkeylands was nothing special.  Some broken glass on the ground; a grass verge sloping up towards some back fences and another line of houses. A clump of trees to the left.  A wasteland.  Immediately Mark knew that no one in their right mind would want to come here on a night like this. The joke was on him.

As Mark was about to leave, he sensed movement from behind the trees. When he had back-peddled to the iron gates, he turned to see a stray dog lolloping off, being sucked away into the darkness. As he exhaled, his breath plunged a puff of fog into the blackness of night. 

The streetlamp ahead was already surging with a blazing red buzz. Mark followed the path, not caring how muddy his shoes were becoming. He reached the hedge, relief and disappointment battling inside him for home advantage....

It was not the high engine revs of a gear change that warned him. The squealing of the car's brakes it was that made him turn his head. The Ford Cortina came to a standstill and the passenger door was flung open. 

Watching from behind a nearby curtain a young girl saw the driver's mouth move. It spoke a single phrase.  In one movement, the front seat collapsed forward. An arm grabbed for Mark, its fist clamping round his wrist and pulling him into the back of the Cortina.

The engine flicked back to life and the car slithered on its way. Through rows of parked vehicles. It passed the Ashy and the school. Huddled in the back seat, Mark saw his journey to Monkeylands flash by in reverse. When the car reached a give-way intersection, Mark dared to look up at the rear-view mirror. Black eyebrows twitched briefly in his direction; then refocused on the road.

The rhythmic click of the indicators jabbed the silence as the Cortina glided on through these streets. At a bus-stop, animated, head-scarved grandmothers did not stop their conversation. But in the back of the car that passed them,  Mark shook silently.

When the car came to an abrupt stop on a cemented driveway, the shaking stopped and Mark glanced up. Tears were washing through his eyes.  

"Into that house. Now." A black expression. A threatening voice.

Mark squeezed himself cat-like through the Cortina's open door and thought about running. As if reading his thoughts, his dad moved between him and the pavement. For Mark, there was to be no escape... 




(Monkeylands was shortlisted for the Eileen Gilmour Award for Creative Writing in June 2012)

kingdom

a tree for birds to shelter
stems from the smallest seed
            ***
and bread to stuff the starving
swells steadily with yeast 
            ***
there's gold for any digger
who cares to probe the field
            ***
the bargain of the century:
the pearl that seals the deal.





The Gospels are full of stories and I found four of them told in quick succession. I tried to put in them in a short two line form of seven syllables (mostly), followed by six. The second line had to be shorter than the first to fit in with the idea of a kingdom growing from something small.

Posted on dverse: Poetics. An Evening of Short Verse

february awakening

in the burr of dawn,
(a layered synth track settling underneath)
birds send tweets
ice is scratched from screens
a car door segue-slams
to a trundling wheelie bin
heading streetwise

engines scuttle in the avenue
a streetlamp flickers and floats
an energy saving bleary blue sky
switches on
dinosaur footsteps
crashing overhead
(why do children rush to start the day?)
and before you know it
the song of the
yellowhammer is revealed
as "little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheese."





Shared with Poets United Poetry Pantry 139

infinite intimate (a Fibonacci Poem*)

you
went
for it
from the off:
expanding bright light
carving out canyons, star throwing,
infinite intimate etching hearts on lovers' trees,
calling seas, collecting tears in brimming bottles, writing up a space invasion plan....



This is a Fibonacci Poem* in response to todays Poets United prompt. Learn more about this structure here

on writing...

...we scribble on: a therapy both thoughtful and wasteful:
put messages in our bottles to remind us of us later;
freely forwarding our voices onwards to a sad new world
simply sending out our lonely liners on a sea of words...

...they are bobbing out on waves from the beaches where we stand
they go rippling out in rhythms that detach from our hands
at the mercy of the oceans, letters plentiful as sand
drifting, swept away in storms, washed ashore in distant lands.

although
some may find the ocean's bed,

some
will become
a treasure chest,
cracked
open
to be sifted
by a child on a quest.






Posted on dverse open link night 84

Lincoln

Thrawn,
Strong,               

Pale and gaunt.       

Tall
Oak
Bent and drawn.

Battle
Scarred,
Sun down

Gone.

War

Wounds,
Scared to mourn...
   
    ***

Face
Up,
No blind eye.
Stand
Ground,
Let freedom fly. 

Scythe
Down
A nation's psyche,

Tangled

grass,

Hold
Steady ...

Yea...

Whiskers grey,

Streaked with strife...

You

Pay

The Price:

But

Live a life.

Note: I went to see Steven Spielberg's movie last night. Daniel Day Lewis's performance as Abraham Lincoln was immense and inspired this poem.

Meteor

meteor:                    
glimpse of glory,
tiny trace of space
sent
to trash our place.

agog
we stare,
the lame duck
presidents
of a galaxy,
e  x  p  a  n  d  i  n  g,
as we comb
our silvering hair.

meteor:
rock of age
hits history's
page and
what's to do but cower
and pray,
explain away.

meteor:
meet our
mediocrity
and blast our
blase
"whatevers"
with your
blazing tail.

reMIND us
of what's
                                              out
there.



http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-21470205

wide receiver

(1)
straight
from the whistle                                          
i played wide receiver
to sacrificial
passes.

i turned to run
catching
nurture;
i tripped but
ran again
to catch
a country's
heritage.

(2) 
nature
knocked me
down,
but i donned
my gloves,
got up
and ran
to catch
education,
freedom,
faith,
family,
health,
healing,
home,
sense,
sensuality,
spirit...

(3)
at half-time
i recognised and
began to revere
sacrificial
team-mates:
you who blocked,
and block
for me daily
at the line of scrimmage;
you quarterbacks
who fired me darts
of hope
to connect with.

(4)
in the final quarter,
the endzone waits
for all;

tactics, in time, change

and so i begin to
play the passing game
for my own
wide receivers.

with sacrifice and
grace,
let me pass the
ball
of all I am
to you.



Posted for Poetry Jam: Sacrifices.
(With reference to any American Football fans, I'm a complete novice and if I've mistaken any aspect of the sport I profoundly apologise!)

Haiku for my Valentine.

Unsolved mystery:
who kissed who kissed who kissed who
on back for good night?



posted on dVerse open link night

Safe Home

The fog, shape-shifting its way through the evening air, disoriented Joseph as he slid from one kerb to the next. Shop windows all looked the same now. Having retraced his steps several times, he once more cursed his decision to come to this country at all.

His short-term goal was simple. To find his way back home. But this was proving much more difficult than he had imagined. Home. The meaning of the word had degenerated in his mind; stripped back to simply connote the place where he had slept for the past three nights.

The silence was broken as a car drew alongside Joseph. With its headlights dipped, it lit up the mist like stage lights rippling through liquid nitrogen at the start of a rock concert. Joseph gazed into the light, searching for a clue...

The engine turned over quietly, like the comforting swell of a washing machine. A heady scent of diesel discharged from the exhaust as the car idled for a few seconds, then moved off into the night.

In its wake, a tall, silhouetted shape began to move towards him. As the outline approached, a tingling sensation ran down Joseph’s back and arms. Closer and closer the shape came towards him.

"You miss your home?" Joseph’s attention, until now focused straight ahead, was suddenly diverted by a voice which seemed to drop out of the ether into the space behind him.

Joseph immediately twisted round to find that a huge form now blocked his way on the other side. Little flashes of light seemed to glow around the figure's arms and legs.

Joseph had an urge to sit down on the pavement.

Under the man's long blue scarf, Joseph could make out what seemed like a purple and red tunic. It draped the form's long body like a magnificent royal ensign. In the swirling fog, Joseph felt unusually serene. In spite of the fact that he was now surrounded on both sides by complete strangers, he was calm.

"You miss your home," stated the same gravel voice, " and what you have only just begun to recognise in your mind about what home is now, is one way of understanding this fact. But it runs deeper than you will ever be able to understand, Joseph."

"Have we met before?" Joseph could recognise nothing familiar in the face.

"We have never met, but there is a reason why we are now here." The first man’s voice now pierced the night. "You have made a long and difficult journey. It may have seemed meaningless to you at the time, but we want you to know, that your steps have had a purpose."

Joseph could make out that this man wore the same outfit as the second. Squinting more closely, he noticed that the red and purple blended a little into cloudy bubbles. They reminded him in design, if not in colour, of army khaki. Joseph looked down to notice that both men were wearing what seemed like black Doc Martens. He began to search almost instinctively for a weapon of some sort, perhaps hidden in a pocket or belt.

As the first man spoke again light flickered from his eyes to momentarily provide a perfect view of his bearded face and sharply defined cheek-bones. Joseph fell to his knees, unable to withstand the tremor that was overpowering his body. It felt like an electric current was being sent through him. His tongue quivered but he could not speak.

It was the first man who broke the short silence: "You are right to be silent. It was Mark Twain who said that if we were meant to talk more than listen we would have two mouths and one ear." He turned to address the second man: "Sometimes I believe that you have two mouths, Rafa."

Rafa let out an infectious bellow. A wry smile creased the corner of the other’s lips. Joseph couldn’t help but smile too.

The second man became serious again: "Don’t be scared Joseph Elijah Takana. After what you’ve been through, fear is natural, but you should try to let yourself smile once more. Laughter is like a medicine which can heal you, if you will allow it."

With that, the two turned and headed off into the fog, their bodies quickly disappearing from view, but the surge of the light that surrounded them, was clearly visible from where Joseph knelt, immobile and tranquil, on the tarmac pavement.

"You’ll not find home from there!" Rafa’s voice ricocheted through the air and the words seemed to hit Joseph’s ears from various unforeseen angles. He roused himself and began to follow.

As the two men walked on Joseph was never able to catch another glimpse of their faces, but by keeping his eyes looking forward, he was able to discern the two bright shapes. Moth-like, he was propelled through the bitterly cold streets in the right direction.

Finally, the glow died out and Joseph, catching his rasping breath, felt his way across the pavement to the nearest wall. His throat was raw with the taste of the biting winter air. His emotions were raw too.

Reaching the end of the bricked building, he turned into the next street. He immediately recognised it as Sitevale Lane. He had been brought back to within five hundred metres of his flat.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Joseph pulled the thin, silver key from his pocket and opened the security door. A few seconds later he was back inside the flat, crouching by the electric heater. His heart was not here, but for now it was home.




Note:
This is the third part of Joseph Takana's story. If you want to read more it begins with
 Unforeseen Arrival and continues in New Start