Speech Therapist

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

With my therapist,
a genial chap,
we sit and review
my quality of chat
..


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Autumn Report

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Dear Headmaster,

Not a great start,
to begin the year
with a uniform farce
.....


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Bucharest, 1989

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I touched down in Bucharest, for my connecting flight, on to Tel Aviv’s equal distance of foreign placed-ness, at that point, where I stood in a terminal, sparrow-spotted, and under the guard of men in serge uniforms, weighted by rank, chairs also stood, imperial, ragged, as if waiting for the return flight of a poverty-struck...


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The Queen is Spent

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

She ‘leased’ her son a Chopper, first thought – the Raleigh-type? Spending several millions, it’s a helicopter, not a bike! In these days of poverty, don’t pay her any more, no longer to be trusted, with ‘Sovereign Grants’ for sure. Students borrow cash (to learn), debts, a travesty; no grants for the masses, but one...


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Cradle

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Speaking with my mother,
after phone disconnections,
not-getting-throughs,
and of unreturned calls
.....


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Hempstead Meadows

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I sat on the drunks’ bench, near the ever-overflowing bin, shadowing that worn patch of pressed mud, shit-tinged. This sitter’s view, skewed, a beer-distorted luxury, beside dried bird muck; a far Tannoy says ‘Sorry..’ Further on the meadows’ path bushes are clean-picked, the bearing branches snapped, stamped back, welly kicks, where pie-makers, and black-fingered kids,...


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Holy Cross 7:41am

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Simple headstones, dated,
only affording initials,
'Katie' could afford the time
to scratch her's on the face
.....


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53 High Street, Uckfield

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

The white line men,
with a truck of cauldron
and flame,
lay chalk lines of intention
.....


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In the Mirror

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

A thickening of nails,
a thinning of skin,
this inversion of me
is not the me within;

as my time bomb's set
to blow itself up,
my ticking countdown -
this dragged body clock:

Freedom through night,
there the luxury of life,
short-sleep my succour,
in which I delight.


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The Fun Fair

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

The Caravan Club
of Fun
has arrived,
with its cliche cries
.....


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