Another’s Spouse

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

She has to plot for me
our re-measured half-life
Side-step a wish-flat world
Navigate every strife .../


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Night Shifts

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I will sit kitchen-stooled,
until just before five,
having jolt-woken at two,
(eyes sleep-slump, too wide).


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Do You Know Her Name?

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

She stands, cold, at Waitrose's door:
"An immigrant washed-up, on our shore!"
[Is an instantly-fired typed-up-rant:
quick-raged, sick, tuneless, descant]
.....


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Fix

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I'm no longer
easily fixed,
The Superglue drugs
do not hold.

When walking I'll stumble,
sick-kicked,
But inside my head
I am not old.


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Re-Righting

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

This stiffness: a gift I would rather return., These tremors, Bad habits, I wish to unlearn. My wife will command me: ‘Mike, move upright’, Without her this evening, I tilt to the night. I don’t have her near, My kind carer and friend, Her absence is noticed, Because I now bend. Should I refrain From...


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Our Library

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Libraries' hours will reduce,
their lending overdue:
Google will then charge us all
for e-book content view
.....


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River Ouse News

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

So the slow-flow
Of the Sussex Ouse,
Is gently drowned
By our discharged loos
.....


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Uckfield Floods

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Uckfield is flooding, a slow-risen tide, not left on The Uck’s surge-measure pipe. Currents flood twittens, pavements, and paths, fouling by dog ‘Messis’, but no dog-drop red card. Stomach-churned-twirls, often bluebottle-fed, To be foot-stepped, trod-in, and then deep-carpeted: Land mines to be cleared, by the rain, or unpaid, but ’til the flood’s gone, we’ll continue to wade....


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Lifted

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Steep steps off the platform, On a re-railed trip, A lad lifts my bag: My sudden short-stair blip, Is unstepped-signage Of now being infirm; These journeys my stick informs. I once held doors wide, For the fading greyed-few, I am now a member Of the stick-crazed crew: Entrance and exit, No longer shoulder-shoved, Now cared for...


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Insomnia 56 – Aged 51

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

To acre-wide halls, in Birmingham’s inner guts, With ring-roaded shorn verges, of yard-placed shrubs: I am here for a busman’s brief holiday: Booth-trooped through Hall 3, for my youngest’s game play. Wrist-wrapped with Day Passes; and my fourth child shines, This, his Nirvana, a gold (Minecraft-ed) shrine. ‘Do you see their addiction?’ I ask a...


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