The End of Childhood

They sparkled, gold rain through fingers,
chains snaking across our palms, settling
around chubby necks, rings swimming on
stunted digets as mum napped an afternoon
away. In the top drawer, a box rattled,
a delicate jingle, our excitement only forgotten
upon opening, a Pandora's box of milk white
baby teeth breaking tooth fairy beliefs in a moment.

Photo by h.koppdelaney; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Never turn your back

When fighting zombies,
vampires, soul sucking creatures,
the blonde ones never listen
turn around to embrace frat boys,

or the professor, or to tie a shoe,
forgetting the simple horror rules
apply no matter how beautiful
or buxom you are. You are the

red-uniformed starfleet security,
the first to go, last to know,
like our final day together when you
told me her name, said I love you

for the last time.

Photo by ky_olsen; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Sestina: Moving West

It's the first treasured find
that gives you over to love,
a fool that is made to make
that hasty transatlantic move
and create a new life, pierce
through the void however you can

like a "knock-em" 3 stacked can.
Gotta look, gotta see, gotta find
the feeling that finally pierces,
gives your heart over to love
yet you sit there, wait for his move
the one you wanted to make

and still wait to make
as he saunters to his tin can
of a car, signalling his move
the one you were afraid to find.
It's tricky, this thing called love
Tony, Brad, George, Phillip, Pearce

a carousel of names arrows pierce
or pass by, fluttering eyes make
love.
Should you? Can
you give into the find,
another knight to pawn move

that transports, moves
you westward, the sun piercing
eyes with blue, hotter than you'd find
any of the places you make
home. This is the story of can
of finding love

Will you do it my love
will you follow the move
of the motorway, can
you give me a piece of you to pierce,
give way to make
you my only find.

Our agendas met: Find love,
make move,
pierce souls as softly as you can.

Photo by PhillipC; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Coveting thy neighbours life

Curved two seater in polished wood
A sprinkling of apple blossoms
on the path to double french doors,
your shoes and his pair each other.

I see your coffee maker - an italian
holiday souvineur, your blinds half
closed, inviting me to stare,
wishing I was the one you envied.

Photo by EraPhernalia Vintage; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Diner Date

An hour passes to watched clocks
and a third coffee refill
before she stands bound for toilets

and her mom's Mercury in the parking lot.
She weaves through mid-morning diners,
bored waitresses, and sees he's there,

twitching with caffineine and impatience,
a wrong footed first date delayed
by his baseball cap and her nervous eyes,

them missing each others faces
and settling worlds away,
until now.

Photo by David Sifry; Poetry by Heather Taylor

St.Paddys

A talisman for pinches,
we wore shades of emerald,
forest, grass and lime
as badges of a country
we imagined stuffed with
leperchauns and multicoloured
gold dust trails. As Santa
became imagined figments,
the seventeenth turned beer
green and streets filled
with curved hooks and regurgitated
pub lunches, guiness hats
bonding strangers who forgot
about the Troubles, the men
sat starving, the firing squad
leaving strings of snaked dead.

Photo by numb3r; Poetry by Heather Taylor

The End of Summer After His Second Marriage

Barbie doll in hand,
they push her sobbing
into the front seat.

6 years of living
hadn't prepared her
for 5 hours encased in bus

an absent driver
side-glancing by request
at her and cross-armed

sister. They journey
west-ward, their mother
called after boarding

and a wave goodbye, too
late to follow promises
of a lincoln town

car ride home
by a father occupied by
brand new family games.

Photo by Space Ritual; Poetry by Heather Taylor

The Worst Way to End It

4 months away from those 2 weeks
sheet wrapped together, I prearrange
seating arrangements in my head
until you are stuck across the room.

My eyes ping pong between the wall,
your vibrating foot, scrunched face,
and the skater shirt I've been flirting
with. I miss your eyes indefinately.

The love letters never came after
that, the overseas romance a
blocked name in my inbox.

Photo by Dyanna; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Routine

Bill felt he was born for this. Eating lunch as he watched numbers scroll a board, sift through e-mails, organize filing cabinets. Each day itemized by activity. Carefully scheduled and planned. On Fridays, he'd wear his dress down tie and have obligatory post work drinks. The girls nodded at his nervous hellos before turning back to the slick sales boys from the third floor and Bill would sip his half with the other accountants from his division.

Days passed this way until he turned as grey as his sweater, and began to fade into his cubical walls. Lunch no longer interested him and he worked long into the night, home an untagible place. His keyboard began to give out, the keys no longer responding to his touch and the IT team never came. Unheard, he stayed glued to the number board, eyes flicking at the changing state and he'd guess the curve of the upward/downward fluctuation. At drinks, he sit in corners, watch the buzz of hormones. His hellos no longer nodable became a quick glance behind shoulders, a shiver as if graves were walked upon, a look straight through as if he was no longer there.
Photo by h.koppdelaney; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Treetop canopies

Green struggles under
dark glasses sunblocking bare earth,
rain a distant dream.
Photo by Estel-uk; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Possible futures

I dreamed of you: a pea under my pillow,
shoots curling round stubby fingers,
summer lake cottages with star blankets.

Breath whispers from bluebell carpets,
moss curls to pigtails, shoelaces hang
on overhead wires like brand new bows.

Tiny kicks ripple water, lap at sleep
edges the memory of unsung moments
your face yet unmade.

Photo by sleepyneko; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Stuffed

You plug ears with cotton
nod in time to lip movements
and promise moonbeams to the sun.

Your kind trade player card lives
with mates in white suits
saying yes over and over

when you really mean no.

Photo by Cosmic Kitty; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Pilot Season

Beside me, you dig your fingers
into the top of my hand
the skin edging white
a spreading pressure stain

"What's wrong?" the start of
chained events unsaid
as our eyes stay fixed
on flickering screens

overrated BBC programmes
elongating the night.
"Um. Uh. Um." You sputter,
an engine on it's last legs,

and I watch as your eyes
swell to tears, another ending
I wanted, the perfect finish
of our year long sitcom.

Photo by Aaron Escobar™; Poetry by Heather Taylor

All I Want is Elvis Presley's First Recording of "My Happiness/That's When Your Heartaches Begin" that He Made for his Mom

Four dollars found in dug pockets,
the push of brooms, christmas cards,
crossed the counter a few days after
high school released him from it's grip.

He played the songs on repeat,
the ones he knew she loved,
in preperation for this day
and played them again

for a slanted mic, under-paid
technician audience. The years
ahead were barely a glint,
the only fan, his mum

and this record, his gift, the only
thing she wanted, the thing
that would drive collectors
to auctions & garage sales

a priceless thing, happiness and
heartache in it's grooves,
a love, a dedication, a simple time
before the madness began.

Photo by eek the cat; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Orange

Gracing favorite hockey team jerseys,
Halloween cookies, morning juice drinks,
you're the poster boy of nutrition,
sports sites and spas.

We love/ hate you
our joy leaking from pores
as you magic tan your way
through Essex and back.

The out of favour flavour,
you stare blue and green-wards
dreaming of 70s polyesters
and retro wall patterns.

Photo by Malkav; Poetry by Heather Taylor

The First Night That She Died

The first night that she died,
we wailed at the loss, tears turned
to hollers and yells and shouts
until her eyes opened and she demanded

her last supper : thick steak,
thicker gravy, grits and greens.
We let her suck on chipped ice,
stroked her hair and waited.

The second night that she died,
we sniffed at her passing, damp eyes
turned to moans, whimpers and sighs
until her lungs rose and she screamed

for last dinner rites : peachy-plummy
pies and giant meatballed spaghetti.
We gave her soup through a straw,
patted her head and went to bed.

The third night that she died,
we flipped through magazines,
heard the clock tick slow
until she sat up and whispered:

Dinner please. And so we mustered
up some sliced ham, mash and a crusty roll.
She ate it with relish, licked her
plate goodbye, and finally fell asleep.

My love

It eats at you,
a pate of liver
and heart and flesh

until your bones
glean through gashes
and bleach in the sun

as the rest of you forgets
you're something,
until you're gone.

Death takes a Hobby

Consumed by

dreams of watercolours,
political sculpturing,
puppets, masks, peruvian flutes
and painted furniture,

my fancy passes
and comes to die in storage boxes
the clock never granting
the right amount of time

A fine balance of tea, pillows,
closed eyes, bank books
unbalanced.

So we decided to start running

Eyes flash back
as the torch scans
the path ahead.

Hackles raised,
they look to us
with cocked heads,

a trait more human
than wild wolf
as they step forward,

our footsteps
retreating in time,
a wildlife tango

we only heard about
in ranger guides.
She pokes my side:

"do something" as I
whisper back the same.
We both raise our arms

growing extra feet
in seconds as we yell,
turn ourselves

into indescribable
monsters backing towards
stone outhouses

only running
when we are close enough,
sure they won't have time

to pounce.

Quiet

My quietness
has a man in it,
tall & thin,
he stands at periphery
transparent
bleached magnolia
to blend into hotel walls
that mirror to infinity,
cut outs dotted along
motorways to criss-cross
islands, continents.

My quietness
has a man in it,
he is transparent
watches words formulate
a swimming pool
in my head
a ghost of memory
finding solace
in silence.

N+7 poetry

Using a prompt from Poets & Writers, I wrote a poem using the N+7 form, conceived of by the French poets of the Oulipo movement. Basically you choose one of your own poems and replace each noun in that text with the noun occurring seven entries below it in your dictionary.

So I chose:

Study 28

His eyes
Flick from papers
To penetrate my flat
A new found breakfast ritual
Now craved.

Who looks
At covered girls
Faces buried in paints
Pencils giving life instead of
Living?

The new version is:

Stunt 28

His facade
Flicks from parables
To penetrate my flaws
A new found breakfast roach
Now craved.

Who looks
At covered glaciers
Facilities buried in palaeography
Pennants giving lightning instead of
Loam?

First Sleds

A Christmas gift
parents

understand
fulfills

cravings of
those who

think miracles
exist

On the Town

It isn't until
years later
that I allow
Fridays to be
rest days
abandoning
inner thoughts
that those who stay
indoors as drinks flow
will grow old with
cats and flowered
jumpers.

Afterschool

Child size chairs line the halls
too small for your frame
you sink to the floor
your knees between your legs.

I run the corridors
in search of brown paper
breaking rules only broken
for winter morning running clubs

a bag used for puppets and lunches,
that kindergarten mainstay,
the only solution to your panicked breath
a 10 year can provide.

Order

Always late,
his habit of washing hands
poking spots, plucking brows
took over clock watching
the second hand unnoticed
until the time to go
came and gone.

Jokes passed through friends
"Need a watch mate?" or
"I know what to get for your
next birthday". He shrugged
them off, questions unanswered.

They never saw him at night
coming home to dump his bag
laying its contents in
neat symmetrical rows
blowing dust out of corners
unable to sleep until
everything was just right.

Dust

Two inches thick
it penetrates
nostrils, eyelashes,
sandwich lunches
and settles over
mismatched IKEA furniture
like a rough winter coat
a month before spring.

Anniversary

I put the X on the anniversary of your last day but it seems wrong to sully it. It makes it seem so final. The day speeds by as I bake to fill freezers and counter spaces. I start with Valentine Orange Cookies in misshapen cupids, heads snapping easily off into crumbles. Peanut brittle next. The recipe we perfected over long winters as children, a time of big sister bonding I never got in other seasons. The advent of the microwave reduced waiting times and the hourly process is now over in minutes.

It’s a blur of breads and muffins, cakes and hard sweets, crowding for space on the fridge and table. Some trays are even creeping into the lounge. That night he finds me on the floor. The last batch in your favourite. Cinnamon piercing the air in exotic arrows as I curl by the stove, flour covered dough hands pressed to the oven window. Eyes closed. Pretending the warmth is you.

The Gerkin

Dildo shaped, you thrust
failing suits and ties upwards
to fuck overcast skies.

Soldier Fly

Paths to the bin
are zig-zagged with your
relatives and your
arial trapezee stunts done at
supersonic speed
through the space between noses and
rails of backyard fences:
a cacophany of buzzing
tickling my senses.
I never liked you,
overpopulating the earth from your home in
South and North America then
pushing eastward, westward to make
homes of Europe, India, Asia and
even Australia during World War 2.
Can't you find a resting place
only one continent wide,
make a pest of
yourself
in a land far far
away from where I'm living?

Such fantasies would rid the earth of your
talent: 15 kilograms per day of
restaurant left overs per square meter,
a 95% reduction in the weight and volume of
this waste we need ridding of and every 100 lbs of garbage
I make, you'll leave only 5lbs behind.
Only now I think of you as a necessity, the bug
stuck with Soldier Fly/ Stratiomyid Fly nicknames instead of
Parastratiosphecomyia stratiosphecomyioides-a full name which
has the ability to
envoke terror into even the most well-read teachers
converging upon classes with registers in hand
over pronouncing names to
maintain the highest standards
yet stumbling over your name,
illustrating their inability and
only you and they would know their misstep, both of you
ill at heart wanting to
die, the floor to suck you in
evolution to forget about your existance, clock hands
slowly ticking to class end.

The Problem with Giant Gobstoppers

Our parents direct us towards the
5-minutes-in your-mouth-and-their-gone
variety but we move slack jawed
past ping pong, golf and tennis ball sizes
to the granddaddy of them all.

We jump, dance, stomp, point and pout
until it is bagged and thrust into greedy hands.
Howling children with unwanted coke bottles
and sour soothers are dragged past us
their fingernails digging into the floor,
hands wrapping around doorframes,
the gobstopper prize still in sight.

At home, we tuck ours into bed with us,
half wrapped in plastic and lick until
sleep takes us and mornings come with
sticky faces, our cheeks dyed to match
the layer we got to, our tongues like
sandpaper, our stomachs sick with sweet.

G20 at Canning Town Station

They cluster in 4s and 5s
decorated in flourescent yellow,
trunchons dangling at their sides.

Hopping from foot to foot
they scan crowds, stopping
dreadlocks and patchwork coats

to search bags, empty pockets
look suspectingly at sets of keys
and full canteens as dangerous weapons.

My nose ring mustn't be big enough,
my curled hair not the matted mess
they'd expect from a protesting terrorist

so they look past me to stop pink hair,
no passing thoughts that my bulging bag
may be filled with bombs and gasoline.

In the Institute

Her floors still sparkle
years after her brain melted
and disorder reigned.

It started with string:
a loose thread that unravelled
her tightly wound self

his barbed words poking
holes in clammed up memories
until they slipped out

and she, like the egg,
sat in pieces on the floor
scrubbing and scrubbing

it clean.

Photo by therapycatguardian; Poetry by Heather Taylor

New Years Day, 2002

The day I arrive, my shoulders ache,
pull my fear into forgotten places
as I long for my new resting place:
a flat on a canal in the heart of Camden.

The blue line heads into the knot of metropolis
so I board a carriage of holidaymakers
and bored Londoners home from vacations.
No one looks to my pale face or bandanaed head

Or stares at the foriegner with a maple leaf
stitched promiently onto her bag, the flag
I wish I forgot at home, that there was no time for stitching
during my weeks of good-bye coffees & drinks.

But here, I follow blue line to black, all my possessions
lumped on my back. The Junk Lady from Labyrinth
with a lightened load, all my belongings flung to family
& friends who longed for glass balls, wind chimes & Harry Potter.

Camden Station. The tube ride seems as short
as the days at home before my New Years Eve
plane ride launched me into a new life of new words,
long distance phone calls & home office paperwork.

At street level, I feel like drowning, the crowd all
spring salmon pushing upstream, an undiscovered purpose
catapulting them through the years & past me until
I tighten my straps & take that first step in.

30 Day Poetry Challenge

Fellow UK poet Malika Booker is joining Roger Bonair - Agard and a group of thirty poets to do a poem a day challenge for the month of April. Though we normally post a photo and then I write about it, I'm going to add poems and hopefully my sisters will then add photos where they can. Welcome to the 30 day challenge....here I go!