A long pause found less often
under my doom-scroll thumb –
I am talking – keep it down – a
silence once met as our angel
ghosted overhead is my class-
room’s one-thing-left – viewed
from this gallery above – recall
& scent-heft – ‘til re-embedded
& met – a pause again of more
than myself – here is my ghost
on my stair – bob o’ dark hair &
cool perfume pair to announce
her place in my house – so still
between us & un-breathable –
it undoes us – a moment there –
almost a loitered kiss shared &
other steps taken – but a ghost
was my imagination’s guest – I
will look to scrolling for what?
Author: Mike Bell
Mike Bell writes one poem every day - one a day since 5th November 2015 www.mikebellpoems.com
Poem #2,860 | DFL in Lewes
God! – that awful parent
putting on his brash act
[with his obnoxious son
& heir] – equally his wife
at fault – A trouble-some
thought ’bout Lewesians
fresh from London’s spit
[thin brick-rich refugees]
& I aim to unsettle them –
Sour dough lovers will sip
rich lattes in independent
coffee outlets & chew fat
croissants [DFL again] – A
time to burn their crosses
& guide them to an Ouse-
slip-bank – let them slip in
Poem #2,859 | Panem et circenses
Panem et circenses still work
to stump us – Fed on loaves &
lies thrown as confetti [spread
until faded & trodden-in] – We
sit in sunlight’s scrub of heat –
warming after winter’s rub &
tease – Juvenal [long-dead] is
laughing in Rome – Our orders
in coffee shops dull a request
to pay more for [basic] needs –
sour lectern-gripped masters
let us know things’ll get better
[for others] – Spring will return
a short-lived fling in our hearts
& ambitions’ll rise [for a while]
Poem #2,857 | We have these chairs [unattended]
We have these chairs
[unattended]
in rooms without visitors –
Here an
unannounced party was started up
by after-bar wanderers –
Hosting a
half-dozen sour souls to love you
[a
table to centre us all] was my gift –
a conclave before a pope –
Now he
is dead –
you are dead –
even if out
on this dreaded High Street –
you a
dead lover of gatherings round you
& un-seated too –
I’ll not invite you
Poem #2,856 | There are rats the size of cats
There are rats the size of cats
round the back of Pells Pool –
rum-scurriors with little regard
for others
[at work on toss-off
& fallen birds] –
Bucks & does
fuck under rumpled sheets of
ivy within a stones throw of all
those rain-bent dog walkers –
We are promised milder air by
this weekend
[a sniff of spring
would be a welcome thing] –
I
counted four of those fuckers
last I was there –
my Room 101
Poem #2,855 | There is where deer rolled
There is where deer rolled
over collapsible bracken &
left their weight as shadow
indents [between dartings
they find rest] – ours was a
yomp up – Mungo’s Falls a
shallow pool pissed in as if
a faucet left on – pretty too
after a heavier rain – Up to
our brace of parked cars –
then a race [over Ashdown
over forty] to a beamy pub
where we unpacked more –
I learned of your love of ale
Poem #2,854 | It is still fucking cold
It is still fucking cold
[even with climate &
other things] – shiver
fits take me into a hit
of tremors as if sick –
There’s no warmth in
this dead pub – a pair
of would-be lovers in
a discussion ’bout all
their auld fucks are a
level too loud [p’raps
I’ll crunch my crisps]
& I bear their flirts as
my pint is downed – I
will warm in my bed –
alone I will sleep well
Poem #2,853 | Were pubs always this loud?
Were pubs always this loud:
that rising of a conversation
over others –
amplification a
common action
[swearing &
a low command of language
too richly shared out aloud –
& shrieks back] –
Now I find
myself in a lunchtime lull as
a barman types his account
of in-outs & my quiet pint of
too-cold stout settles in still
air –
creak of chair is a cry –
no more said in a quarter of
an hour supped –
I agree in
empty pubs –
less is slurred
Poem #2,852 | Their Queen Bee is ageing
Their Queen Bee is ageing
under pull of time [& uglier
tugs] – When she’s gone a
vacuum will not be filled &
their needs’ll shift from her
narcissistic love to feed on
false memories – I sat with
that hive of love buzzing in
dances under rose bushes
that bore red curling petals
& watched beauty drop – a
frantic ant scuttled onward
to feed on beauty dropped
Poem #2,851 | Yet again ghosted
Yet again ghosted
by a spooked fool
who leaves chat &
embraces un-met
with a dead-end –
scared off by their
assumptions ’bout
how bad for them
my illness will be –
that’s cool – I have
discarded love too
for lesser excuses
read on WhatsApp
[licentious – cruel]
Poem #2,850 | He Was Not Told Why
So I shall die not knowing that
difference between a swallow
& a swift –
my list of undone is
mine
[in this time to add more
is mine –
too] –
I will settle into
a canny long-ish ignorance –
I
have it etched
[well enough to
wear over centuries] on stone
in advance –
He Was Not Told
Why –
& other deeply scored words
Poem # 2,849 | There is one less card
There is one less card this year
now she has gone –
an opening
not to expect & one less kiss at
this time of year to take note of
[& will be missed] –
a care less
to fold open –
our consolations
count out gaps to fill –
I missed
that box ceremony
[uninvited a
common part for me to play] &
how shall I be remembered eh?
Vows
She sleeps on her side
as I turn to mine
under the covers
with our adjustments
we are a couple
unlike all others
which the wed believe
in short woke moments
Time Travel
‘The heavy weight of a lonely death’
I read
stated in bold at headline height
eye lined up to the old woman
here
English and abroad
reading her UK paper
as the onshore wind curled the other pages
held in her three score and more years of holiday-making
and with the other shaded septuagenarians
her clock refuses to stop
The Return of Bike Sheds
With your re-found lover
are you re-visiting
those ancient playgrounds
left long unanswered?
The swings and saws
of groped adolescence
of snucked suck kisses
behind fixed extrusions?
Like rusted bike sheds
and youth group huts
of quick lifted skirts
to his young fingers
Now ease replaced
by a kiss more lingered
Denis Potter at The Picture House, Uckfield.
I am here, hiding,
under the cover
of lowered lighting
and a backdrop
of
acoustic guitar,
with a heavy glass
of London Pride:
A tongue-end taste
which takes me
back to then, 1984,
as I try to read
‘Potter on Potter.’
But I play
other songs,
from old TV shows,
inside my
head: he wrote
(almost) musicals
and smoked.
Rees-Mogg, Again
Good grief we’re
in a national state
about #Brexit
& the #NHS.
Let’s give up moaning,
embrace the farce,
vote for Rees-Mogg
and live for the past.
Crow Flies
I thought I caught
your high laughter
above the babble
of the rear passengers,
those still seat-searching,
that loud release
of your soul through
the packed plane,
but you were fifty miles
as the black crow flies
back in Sussex,
strutting, teaching kids
the art of slow cooking,
whilst our youngest
was absent, next to me.
We circled above you
and then turned east,
and the tight discomforts
of modern air travel
meant I was cut off
by the rule of law,
subject to sky marshals
and air hostesses,
the containerised whims
when being removed,
a divorce, felt as tightness
from the buckle and belt,
which have to be worn
due to the turbulence,
we could drop from the sky.
Bikini
It was a photo
(they no longer
curl or crack,
these moments
captured, now
kept immaculate).
focus-wrong,
but I knew,
recognising your
bared bones,
and in that posture,
comport
from below,
I knew that moment,
which was yours,
chromatic.
What Makes Us Special?
Reduce the Brits, take away their tea,
Jaguar, Landrover, and Wedgwood pottery,
all now sold, the last of British treasures,
what is left ‘Great’ to make Britain special?
The Great British dinner – battered fish and chips?
Actually a recipe from Jewish immigrants:
The gold we hold in the Bank of England?
No, its ‘ta’ to Huguenots for banking millions.
Ah, nothing more Albion than our ancient royals?
Nein, migrant blue blood, now long-despoiled.
But Punch and Judy, that traditional beach farce?
Alas Italian, their commedia dell’arte.
OK, Saint George, a true Sainted Brit?
No, a Syrian son, with a dragon, illlegit.
Right, polo, how English, on lawns of Windsor?
Sadly, for you, from the dusty kingdom of Persia.
That mothers’ ruin poured from gin distilleries?
Been shipped in barrels, from overseas.
Pigeon racing, ’tis Northern, an ‘Up-North’ fancy?
Nay lad, flown in by Belgian bird-loving royalty.
The Womens’ Institute, cake and Englishness?
Sorry, Canada made it, and Wales repossessed.
That well-mannered bear, who as kids we well knew?
Ah, even Paddington Bear is a foreigner too.
This country of confusions, imports and invention,
is at its British best when embracing immigration.
The Thief, The Lover.
He felt her ribs
(in his reading
of her body),
next,
an appraisal
of her breasts.
His blind fingers
stole
the female form
which she possessed:
Such slightness
in that robbery:
He kissed
her lips,
before the rest.
Breakfast Tea for One
The dishwasher needs filling,
even when you’re not here.
I was woken by the dog’s breath,
not your’s my dear.
This temporary separation
(of merely one night)
is the dawning realisation
that a divorce isn’t right.
Mutants
Princess Anne loves genetic crops,
she’s inbred-proof it really works,
there’s other experiments in mutation
displaying success beyond expectation:
Trump and Putin re-mixed the truth,
and now the States is democratic proof
that all it takes is a misogynist’s grab
to be Putin’s pussy; sat there on his lap.
This isle, set adrift by Farage’s caper,
limp as cold chips wrapped in newspaper,
is turning into another Gulliver’s find,
becoming a nation of the very small kind.
As toxic shocks of religion have shown
mix god with politics and here Hell will grow,
add in racism, bestow false hopes,
and the future becomes a right royal joke.
Gifted, again..
Addlestone Crossing
There to see my father,
propped-up in a polished box,
one that my eldest brother,
chose, on the basis of, what?
Death was still too sour to us,
the parlour’s air throat-clogging,
this feared place of passing youth,
ten yards from the level crossing:
Often halted by its turned gates,
and scoured spin of wheels,
on our way in and out of town,
with Dad, and his thousand skills:
he could dissect a battleship,
break apart any gun,
extemporize upon anything,
with sketch, and rule of thumb.
Now boxed-in, he tarried,
we’d leave him, lonely, there:
my brother could not stand
the shop’s execrable despair:
In that time, almost gone,
I learnt about death’s prop:
that last lesson from my father,
our paths no longer crossed.
The Last Frost in Sussex
08:24. I am touching the last of a cold God,
over unevens, under unornamented woods,
now contained by us – for the good of all:
February over-sugared, overnight, here underfoot;
the stripped hedgerow is briefly lit, crowned
by the blinding hour, those umber-dipped
high stick fingers touch the very last of His
visible burnt presence.
Along the raised path, the short timber route,
over the flood-expected meadow, a convenience
for us led dog walkers, commuters, drunkards:
It has a ship’s complaint under my over-weight,
a sea worthy distrust of unstrapped cargo,
my stick a peg leg poke across her slippery deck.
Greater tussock sedges, rare Sussex lumps of grass,
green icebergs gathered, wait for the June onslaught
of Japanese knot weed, a foreign flood in this field
after the cold-breath time has been put aside, quicker
with each warmer year. The woodpecker stopped
in Buxted. 08:32.
From the Road
Woodingdean, Brighton.
The razored lawn cemetery,
there, down from the road,
with lonely St Dunstan’s
always stood distant
as a fixed backdrop,
on the near-blind cliff-top,
the far site reduced
by a rolled sea fret,
as gulls in the foreground,
rain-danced on the turf
to bring up fooled worms.
Sucked Out
Henry the Hoover
was never ‘for’ Brexit,
he liked to keep it simple,
being a hard-working Brit,
Unlike Dick the Dyson,
with his uber-brand name,
who was blowing off Europe,
because it sucks to Remain.
Protected: For a Daughter, in Nottingham.
The Wild Atlantic Wanderer, for JV
Why walk such distances,
with only the weather
measuring your steps,
over The Downs,
as breaths are taken
in exertion and sights?
Why walk without
a destination,
but the next stride,
on loosened chalk paths,
side-stepping puddles.
Why walk from your fixed place,
packed-up, back-turned,
to be rained-on, blown,
to find loneliness,
to be met by hearth
and hearty places?
*Jane Volker’s blog:
http://wildatlanticwanderer.blogspot.co.uk
The Beauty Parade
Last year’s beauty queen,
Chelsea, her name,
placed, atop the crown –
Ranieri’s tinkered game:
Hazard, a problem,
sunk Spur’s, enraged,
a trip-up, and gouge;
The Bridge, cruel-staged:
To lift the Premiership,
whilst drunk at Vardey’s,
the ultimate result –
for poorer-paid parties.
Dad & Frank Zappa
I have never enjoyed cold tea.
You know that slop-dreg inch,
lukewarm, tipped into the sink.
My dad drank gallons of it,
with swigged slurp – his sound.
By God, he could drink it hot!
Gulped down, necked red-raw,
followed by a Silk Cut drag,
until the throat cancer stuck,
and he coughed it all up.
Was it the bloody cigarettes?
He puffed over nine miles of fags,
And how many gallons of tea?
With a cooled inch left, I recall
the words from Frank Zappa:
‘Everything gives you cancer’
Close to Parkinson’s: Hurting
Our closest have lives,
To live and enjoy,
Delayed redundancy
In our sick bed-employ:
Carers, co-sufferers,
Career un-chosen,
Tend disconnected,
The mumblers, and frozen.
Altered, unfair,
Re-written contracts;
No wedded-bliss,
When ill cannot act.
Wives, husbands,
Family, relatives old,
Air-brushed awareness,
As PD takes hold:
My prop, my chained-helper,
Engaged, far too cheap:
Her offset disbursement,
Too tired to weep.
When care is passed on,
With my atheist-prayer,
I ask her forgiveness,
For our contract, unfair.
A Path In Israel
It was a path
from another time,
Your close enquiry
of an ant-marched line.
Crossing the equally
engineered rails,
We both avoided
the steel-trip trail.
You, eldest boy,
chatting alongside,
On the rough-route,
where Ruti had cried:
Your uncle asleep,
in this blown-thin soil,
Alone in this god-land:
an empty black voile.
Unlocked the gate,
metallic complaints,
I showed you the place
where your uncle waits,
your talk is erased
by the hand-carved curves,
Our name cries out,
among foreign words.
Pells Pool By Night, 1980s
For Clair May.
She would climb the wall,
under lost summer-light:
A crisp swallow-dive,
the thrill-chill of night:
Leftover, chalked-up,
mean temperature,
meant nothing to her,
dusk-dip, cold, venturer.
Surfacing, ripple-waking,
false mirror’s stretch;
she gripped, bump-naked,
the pool’s hard edge:
A rough-laid return,
like a lover’s slap,
then conscious of time,
breast-stroke elapsed:
Lifted, from the water,
wet moon on her skin,
she wore Pells Pool,
back home, again.
Tommy F*cking Robinson
Tommy Robinson,
what a ‘pure’ knob:
Racism fisted-him;
a nice hard cock.
ENL suffered,
Pegida’s scream,
his last-vote’s-breath:
A shallow-beached dream.
I sat with a gay man,
And argued politic,
But his defense,
was pure cock-lick.
There is little hope,
For any one vote,
If none of us manage,
To embrace last-hopes.
My decision is minimal,
With where I live,
But my vote is the one thing,
I can ever re-give.
My grandfather a ‘conchie’,
But I would not, too;
Instead an infantryman,
Whose headstone was due.
The Haunted
We look back, short-distanced,
on our piled-brick place,
once-removed, down-sized,
us, former-residents:
a re-settled family,
to that home we sold:
they’ll be embraced,
by its haunting’s enfold.
I met it often, not face-to-face,
Stair-cased, landed, hour too late.
My Wife
[For Clair May.]
She has to plot for me,
Our re-measured half-life:
Side-step a wish-flat world,
Navigate every strife.
She ensures my sleep is taken,
Re-fills the gap.
She has to micro-manage
Each low-kerbed trap.
Such mis-rules were never our
Rung out wedding vows:
My shaken hand, still in hers:
This we espouse.
Our Library
Libraries’ hours will reduce,
their lending overdue:
Google will then charge us all
for e-book content view.
Our library is all knowledge,
day-long care and quiet reads,
our vast bookmark will be lost
if all we do is cede:
Loved tomes will not open,
nor the library’s oft locked-doors,
no free church for free readers,
we have to fight for more.
Less bookworm-work for staff,
all that knowledge has been sacked,
they may find jobs in Tesco’s,
where books aren’t freely stacked.
Harry’s Last Standards, For Mr. Harry Leslie Smith
‘The sepia tone of November’ has gone,
wrote Harry Smith, aged ninety-one:
Seeing worn-out, blood-red, poppies as lies:
Pinned politic medals for cut-back lives.
Dignity: for aged, infirm, unwell,
should not be hacked down, so this state can sell
the last shards of a now-curtailed reward,
gained fair, in blood dried, post-war, accord.
‘A too-weighty burden’, ‘a fat cash cow’,
‘needs to be slaughtered, put it down, right now.’
War-won promises of a better world:
Instead they insist that respect is culled.
On Harry Smith’s lapel no poppy spun:
For him the Old Wars are still to be won.
MIKE BELL | 10,000 Poems 