Flash Fiction learning that the heart of writing is imagination + craft + editing.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
People Power
Looking out of the window, he saw the crowds far in the distance like ants waiting for a strong foot to ground them down. ‘Minister the people await you,’ calls an anxious official who at least still had faith in the people. He believed until shot in the forgotten purges.
Life goes round
When you are young, they say schooldays
are best, leastways
that’s what old men
say to chasten.
For open fields call me when young,
schooldays unsung
for play and skies
and butterflies.
Old age now calls for me to say,
write the essay,
work out the sums
but play with chums
are best, leastways
that’s what old men
say to chasten.
For open fields call me when young,
schooldays unsung
for play and skies
and butterflies.
Old age now calls for me to say,
write the essay,
work out the sums
but play with chums
Community Spirit
The bad news
Wedding night jitters
Only really matters
Royal minders say if
Sovereign’s aperitif
Ensures no hanky-panky
Or shrinking dinky
For they must a heir
Frankly, and a spare.
They ain’t so little now
I will never leave you
Hollywood Holocaust
Fellow passengers
Standing in the corridor, she glared at the waiter,
.........‘Surly this is a mistake,’
.........‘No madam they are guests of the Count.’
.........From the cabin, the man wearing down-at-heel clothes and smoking a pipe called out, ‘you’ll alright love.’ His wife smiled at his manners as she sipped her beer.
Beware of Gifts
Sunday, 15 March 2009
1963
What did you do at the end of the world,
did you sing at last, or
declare love to your boss.
Was it a welcome break
or a sad farewell.
In a house scared of modern times,
I played tag, I ran with
the killers before they killed.
Death had already called
A radio reborn told us lies
of hero’s struggle so we
lingered in life ready for
the death dealt us.
did you sing at last, or
declare love to your boss.
Was it a welcome break
or a sad farewell.
In a house scared of modern times,
I played tag, I ran with
the killers before they killed.
Death had already called
A radio reborn told us lies
of hero’s struggle so we
lingered in life ready for
the death dealt us.
The morning
The weekend starts now
Bring on the sunshine
Fame is what
Fame is here, you paint the
good, the bad, and the ugly
if money moves your fingers.
You expose the soul of choice
by colour, line and shade
And by the thousands we
come to admire or buy.
So why the sombre
brown portrait
with eyes tearful,
face downcast yet
sensual lips
with appetite.
Was it empty days,
your father’s life calling.
Or was this the last
gasp of honest art,
the last real soul
before the feast
drove out taste.
good, the bad, and the ugly
if money moves your fingers.
You expose the soul of choice
by colour, line and shade
And by the thousands we
come to admire or buy.
So why the sombre
brown portrait
with eyes tearful,
face downcast yet
sensual lips
with appetite.
Was it empty days,
your father’s life calling.
Or was this the last
gasp of honest art,
the last real soul
before the feast
drove out taste.
The surprise
Granma knows
Childhood
Off to the land of dragons and foreign tongues
by the magic of copper trupence.
No more for a summer the run for snuff
but a stream, a forest and a night with stars.
You see a boy faint in the distance, I see a hero
waiting to find that sliver moment when dappled
sun kissed him like a mother, when roaring stream
bounced him high like a father, when he knew joy.
A land where the moon dances and the
Prince waits for true love carried by a unicorn,
where giants roar and the book of your dreams
make being alone a distant song for another day
by the magic of copper trupence.
No more for a summer the run for snuff
but a stream, a forest and a night with stars.
You see a boy faint in the distance, I see a hero
waiting to find that sliver moment when dappled
sun kissed him like a mother, when roaring stream
bounced him high like a father, when he knew joy.
A land where the moon dances and the
Prince waits for true love carried by a unicorn,
where giants roar and the book of your dreams
make being alone a distant song for another day
Writers do it best in circles
Even the poor have poor
Being poor comes in many shapes
you balance life lived on tightropes
old decaying grandeur but fresh eggs,
and wild hunts for moorland rabbits with
open fields for play and magic twigs
swopped for slipper baths and piss
yet on the streets the east and more
calls with exotic faces that others hiss
until the compact luxuries of prefab
squeeze us in the bargains of a life
until to breathe you escape by minicab
when does a house become a home
how long the streets did I roam.
Listen to what the music tells you
‘Music is the Devils work. The foretelling of fornication.’ ranted the Minister. A prim-lipped man suddenly stood up to sing in a faltering voice, ‘All you need is love, love, love is all you need.’
..........One by one, the congregation stood turning grey into rainbow. The Barnsley Blessing had visited.
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Love the child to be the man
The quiet back row child is dull or stupid,
just like the rest of them, the bloody paddies,
they only drink, and need a good scrubbing.
He had rags on and smelt of shit Tuesday.
I get the creeps the way he looks at you,
big empty eyes. The gossip says uncles
have had a hand spreading legs, if you get
my drift. I know the mom, so can believe.
I knew the words your head made up, they leaked
inside my brain slowing it up, a cancer
waiting. to burst when ever happiness crept in
I once had pills to scrub it dead but woke
early knowing even Jesus says no
so loved the child I was,to grow the man.
Humid Nights
Who Heard
Tarnished Hero
A child is born
I was a changeling child
abandoned but with golden
hopes that real mum
and real dad once
secret deeds were done
would rush crying to hold and hug,
making me
a real family
Sitting, staring at a dirty bed
listening to the drunkard
brawls below, pictures
formed of futures,
of hospital mistakes
so my home wormed
away by a sickly child
meant for this life.
If I was really good or really ill
Doctors and teachers would
know who I was.
I would
have the birth
meant
for me.
abandoned but with golden
hopes that real mum
and real dad once
secret deeds were done
would rush crying to hold and hug,
making me
a real family
Sitting, staring at a dirty bed
listening to the drunkard
brawls below, pictures
formed of futures,
of hospital mistakes
so my home wormed
away by a sickly child
meant for this life.
If I was really good or really ill
Doctors and teachers would
know who I was.
I would
have the birth
meant
for me.
Reunion Risks
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