Three Day Old Sponge Cake

Three Day Old Sponge Cake

He discovers a wedge of chocolate cake
sealed unexpected and safe within the tin.
Bigger than a single slice.
Big enough to satisfy.
Certainly enough for him.
A find! A surprise! A bonus! A treat!

But… It looks a few days old.
Doesn’t yield much to his finger’s prod.
Icing splintering, buttercream clagging.
Sponge once risen to angel-wing lightness,
now drying and sagging.
Past best.
Past it.
He sighs.

Abandons the tin on the kitchen table.
A let-down. A disappointment. A shrug.
Fabled chocolate cake of youth,
swimming his mouth with saliva
and sweet-tooth ache.
Nostalgia and Cadbury’s buttons.
Time of sticky smiles
and no regrets.
Then it was never too late.

His gaze snags the mirror on the mantel.
Eyes, cast down at the corners
to match his mouth.
The greying, the receding,
the wearied brows.
All heading south.
Past best?
Past it?

He thinks of the cake.
The unexpected cake.
Once beautiful,
once wanted,
once yearned for.
Now going to waste.
When it’s still maybe not too late.

Because then he remembers
he has custard.

 

Tonight Claudia invites us to write about FOOOOOOOD at dVerse! http://dversepoets.com/2012/10/06/poetics-foodloose/

Eye Of The Storm

Eye Of The Storm

It’s you!
Come inside.
God, it’s wild out there!
Quick, shut the door.
Lay down all your baggage:
that’s right, put it there,
next to mine, in the hallway,
where we don’t have to look at it.
Unlace your boots – sodden
and squelching with the rain
of your journey: they’ve been
pulling you down too long,
each step so heavy, so weary.

You made it.
This is the eye of the storm.
This is the safe place.
I have the kettle on.

It’s calm in here.
It’s warm and dry.
I’ve bolted the shutters,
pulled all the curtains tight.
Nothing can touch us.
You can barely hear
the wailing outside.

Your shoulders are wind-beaten,
howled-down. Shrug them out
of your shroud-soaked coat.
Peel off your socks, sopping
with road drenched-in. Leave
them to rest on the radiator.
Stretch your calves. Unclench
your chill-blistered toes.
Here’s a towel for your hair.
A mug of tea,
twin to mine.
Clasp both palms around it
and we’ll sip in the steam.

We are the eye of the storm.
Let’s close shut and sleep.

 

This was written for the “weather” prompt at dVerse - http://dversepoets.com/2012/07/07/poetics-whatever-the-weather/

The Lady In The Library – Ssssssshhhh!

I’m sure many of us are old enough to remember when libraries were quite daunting places for small children…  Last time I was in my local library,  I was amazed that people were actually talking at normal volume and not whispering! So here’s a bit of reminiscence…

 

The Lady In The Library – Ssssssshhhh!

Ssssssshhhh!
Ssssssshhhh!

There’s a lady in the library.
Her job is to shush us, to hush us,
in case we get too excited
by the books and plastic chairs.
She can’t have us whooping
and squealing
and dancing on the parquet.
No hopscotch allowed here.
And she scowls at you
when you pick up one of the good ones,
like “The Hungry Caterpillar”.

She goes
Ssssssshhhh!
Ssssssshhhh!

The sound hangs around,
dances like witchy fingers,
cold up your neck.

Ssssssshhhh!
Ssssssshhhh!

She guards her counter,
thumping date stamps in front pages,
blurry ink and the smell of jumble sales.
(She doesn’t like us having the books:
we might break them or leave them
on the bus. Or take them to bad places,
like to the dentist, maybe.)

She gets paid for doing it,
my brother says. Scaring us kids.
He says a boy went missing
last year: he had only asked
to renew “Fungus The Bogeyman”.

Ssssssshhhh!
Ssssssshhhh!

She’s glaring at me now.
I think I need a wee.
One finger to her cat’s-bum mouth.
Mean old lady. If she did have toffees
in her pocket (like my Nan does)
she’d keep them all for herself.

 

Buttons (chocolate)

Buttons (chocolate)

They’re not for doing up:
they don’t go on your coat
or on your cuffs
without trouble.
(‘cause they melt,
make a mucky mess.
Unless they’re Milkybar.)

If you kept them
in a tall glass jam jar
or a big round tin,
you couldn’t leave it
on a sunny windowsill.
They’d all glump together
in a goo of gloop.
Still tasty though.

They are not for saving
for emergency. They are
instant everyday rainy day
cheery-up happy spots.
Available in all good newsagents.
By supermarket tills.
Placation for tantrums.
Bribes for good behaviour.
And children quite like them too.

Yesterday, in response to the prompt at DVerse ( http://dversepoets.com/2012/06/30/poetics-button-button/) I posted a nasty little poem involving lots of bile and… dog sick. Today, I’m still feeling button-y but in a much nicer, childhood nostalgia kinda way…. Not doing the Mr Linky thing on DVerse with this one, ’cause we only get one link there per post (rightly so, no monopolising), but still thought I’d share for anyone reading who likes a contrast… And chocolate!

Face Break Heartache

Face Break Heartache

How now monobrow?
A little bit brown, a little
bit cow-like. Tug forelock
down to hide it. Dip head
low to sly-ride it out,
out, on and up and
away from Lady M’s
damn’d spots and
scabs and grotty
shame-plugged pores.
She gnaws lips, hers
or anyone’s. Anxiety tics,
flicks, grabs words from
her cold-sore mouth.
Eye bags overstuffed,
nostrils scarlet flaring,
chins sinking in
to a limp neck.
Tired, tired, tired.
Wants another go
at being. No more
broken veins.

Thinking Inside The Box

Thinking Inside The Box

Once upon a time
she crawled into the box.
The box was dark and small.
Just room for her to curl up
in a blanket he’d left for her
like a cat huddling
on the way to the vets.
Something to cuddle in
or wee on if she got scared.
Little animal.
Only, not.
He never took the box anywhere.

He never did.
It was calm and close
in the box. And, like he reminded
her, she’d chosen to be in there.
She wanted to be
in a safe place, didn’t she?
He tried to soothe her when she
started turning in skittery black
circles, nails grown long ticking
against the floor, the sides,
chasing her tales of
a life that might’ve been.
Head banging the roof.
A trickle of hot and wet
dribbling past her ear.

He comforted her.
He really tried. He jabbed
holes in the sides, the top,
with a sharp knife.
(She dodged it. Mostly.)
He did it so she could see
daylight. He said she should
take it gently, that she was
in a bad way when she came to
him, begging and dead-limbed,
aching to be enclosed, taken in.
He would let her out,
he said. In time, when she was
right in the head and ready. When
she learned to behave and stopped
stinking of piss. When she

lay quiet in the box,
stopped thinking inside
the box. When she was healed
he would unseal her. Cut the parcel tape,
remove the staples and glue. He promised
she would see the whole sky again
when she showed him she was able
for it. For now, there are holes
in the sides.
He can poke

her in the box. He
can stroke and caress her
in the box. She will learn
to know human touch again
in the box. In a safe place
where no one will hurt her.
No one can get to her,

only him.

He probes at one of the jagged
holes with an insinuating finger,
wriggling into the darkness to feel….
What? Hair, face, lips?
(She’s learning not to bite.)
Foot, thigh, stomach, breast?
With just his fingertip.
Just his finger
today.

You Want An Angel

You Want An Angel

You want an Angel.
She will be pure, demure,
fair of face and good
in the kitchen.
And other rooms.

She will have
a soft, quiet voice,
will never laugh too loud
or question if you’re
wrong. Her figure
is perfect. She
enjoys cleaning.

She will be
a happy soul, content
that she need never
form an opinion
ever again.
You will always
share yours.
It’s not obeying, it’s
accepting, respecting

you are always right.
There was another girl,
you used to like. Kind of…
But she wasn’t…
pretty. The way
good girls are. She
talked too much: you
felt stupid.

And you’re not.
You’re not.
(She never said you were…)

You want an Angel.
You’re certain she’s
out there. Waiting. Pining.
Only for you. Your rescue:
ensuring endless gratitude.
A clipped-wing leash slipped
over to keep her shining
in your sight. Keep her
safe – don’t fly too far,
my love. You want

an Angel. You’re sure
you’ll know when you find her,
needing you. She can’t be
in disguise…
Surely.

Slake – A Rainy Love Poem

Slake

It’s pouring outside.
It brings your licked-lip
smile to mind. Kind rain
plopping heavy to skin:
dusty to shimmering
in a summer storm

instant. Flash floods.
Drenched our shirts,
swayed our spines.
Flip-flopped toes curled
thirsty in puddles, drops
bounced and burst.

You were my dewy drink.
Washed me clean inside
and out. Slaked every
ache. It’s pouring outside.
It’s beautiful – so are you,
still. Tonight I am parched.

We Look Away

We Look Away

The way you look at her
sickens even strangers.
You think she can’t
see it, but she feels it.
You think we can’t
see it, but we know it.

We all look away.
Carry on reading our
newspapers, drinking
our coffee. We all
look away.

The air thickens,
your disgust unwinding.
Coils of distaste tentacle
from you to her.
She stops, feet
unstuck, stumbling
unsure. She stands
quiet a minute,
shoulders tensed.

Not now, not today.

We look away.
We look away.
I struggle with
the crossword.
Three down,
seven letters…?

She is stapled in place
by your sneer. Her blood
quickens: she tastes your
hate in her mouth. Numbing
her tongue to dead-bitten
still. She hopes you can’t
sense her tamped-down fear.
You can. We do. What if
we are all sharks too?

We all look away.
She is glad.
We can’t help.

We don’t know why
you do this, any more
than she does.
And nor do you.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

And here’s a song about wanting to hide away from nasty people and those days you want to, um, well, put a bag over your head! It’s actually very cheerful! (WordPress still refusing to show previews for me like it used to – so looks like I’m stuck with just a mysterious link… sigh)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cuja85S2wd0

Shadow

Shadow

She’s following me.
Squat and shrunken
in the lunch-hour sun.
She weighs me down,
all those extra bulges.
Her smirk-head a blank,
bowing to pavements.
Slump-shouldering me.
Solid. Dirty. Permanent.

Later she becomes
a sneer of lip-stretched
chewing gum: graying.
Drawn out sinewy elastic
snagged on a sharp finger
pointing. She insinuates
evening chill to spike
elbow goosebumps.
She sticks to my shoes.