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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A to Z

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Our stop-go drive across London’s blocked sprawls, Was a late night re-circling of ‘my round’: A pumped-pint history of spilt-bitter fools, I reviewed that compendium, new-found*. My tale: a tatty, once-thumbed A to Z, Of bars, en-route, where I sipped-up my youth. I dozed, again, asleep in strangers’ beds: Drunk kisses, sour love, then alarm-sobered truth....


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Lock-em Up

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Our Uckfield Town Council, is to spend a wee-bit more, £3,000 on four, ‘pay-for’, loo lockable-doors: used two times a day, on average, to refund what’s lent; A 20p dropped: payback may take two thousand spends: Say, two thousand days to own 4 more lockable bogs: But trashed in hours: please invest in bins for spent dogs. Mike...


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Theatre of Terror

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

In moment-loaded, thumb-high trailers,
Promotion of hacked barbarity flicks..


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Harry’s Last Standard

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

The sepia tone of November
has gone -
wrote Harry Smith
aged ninety-one .../


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The Best Doctor

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I am a General Practitioner,
working through my impatient lists..


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First Place

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

At school, a rough painting
of my father, in green:
His shotgun, an accurate detail,
hung arm-broke,
With empty breech, unloaded,
exposed, gun-oil-clean.
He shift-slept: even through
my demanding brush-stroke..


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