Below fevered Sparrows strip-mine
last years leaves into untidy slag.

A weary Gull struts centre stage and
the heavy footed dance begins;
hobnails softened on the heads of worms.

Dark under Rhododendron cover Boris
watches all with a commando crawl,
a black cloud oozing forward as
whiskers whip back the crowds.

A disgusted banging razes all hope;
only still and silent remain whilst
the warm imprint of the hand of God
fades slowly inwards from the sky.

In the bathroom I shave the frown
from my face; lighter now that
I don’t see myself staring back.

Outside, courage tickles away
tightness from bellies as
they lurk outside my world.

The free are seen every day, hidden only by last years drab.
Backgrounders; talking, playing, sitting almost off camera.
An underground of conscientious objectors; questioning.

ii
Tonight the voices of a million families raise in hilarity
as Bob’s futile levering with an old broom handle,
bursts the dead moose that has jammed in his rain gutter.

Four million pairs of eyes check the picture-in-picture display
of their patented intelligent anti-moose guttering system.
No moose has entered any gutter in 84 days of operation.

Tonight’s happiness: knowing that the smell of a rotting
dead moose won’t make them miss their shows or put them
off their micro-waved low fat cheese favoured nacho bucket.
iii
Creating the White Dot is easy; just point and click.
Within reach of everyone; but out of their line of sight.
A real alternative choice, maybe three paces away.

Stand up, walk forward and hit the switch. As the
crackling fades; go outside, into a different state of mind.
Your mind. One of us will make eye contact with you.

tangerine orange
rolling across the tarmac
grab it and run
my juicy wish fulfilment
or return for a smile

random selection
spins combination lock –
big crab claws

steaming hides abound –
tractors speed deafeningly fast
clutching breakfast

It’s dark, it’s after ten PM
and my door bell rings.
Local kids are bored again.
Playing “knock and run”.
But without any actual running.

Again with the ding-dong.
Trouble is no one talks to kids.
I’ve seen “them hooded tops”
on Music Television at the pub.
I’ve listened to how they talk.

As I zip up my cardigan
It goes a third time. Persistent.
Very well, I shall answer them.
Flinging the door wide I shout
“So, where’s the beef, mobo?”

I look into each hood in turn.
Half a dozen blank faces.
Then one, a young girl (I think),
Says “Laterz Grandpa” and
They all move off laughing.

Smiling with my success,
I shout after them (as they do)
“That’s large, moobs!”
And then close my door.
You’ve just got to speak their language.

- o O o -

This was inspired by, and written for the Ad Lib Group Writing Project run by Randa Clay.

Posh shops know this and wrap them well.
Each sock cosseted in tissue and branded silk,
inside a solid shiny box tied with a bright ribbon.

The quality of these socks is only perceived.
They won’t last as long or stop your new shoes
blistering your ankle; you’ve paid for packaging.

A person is a bag of bodily functions, attitudes
and ape imprinting with feet that stink up shoes.
A pretty ribbon is rarely worth the higher price.

manicured lawn –
seagulls dance on the heads
of juicy worms

There’s this theory that for every
choice in life you didn’t take there
is another universe where you did.

So there’s another me standing in
my yard where there are no trees
dropping an afternoon of hard work.

I guess there is also another me
standing here without a broom; and
another yard without another me.

When you think it through fully
leaves in the yard are a really small
price to pay to be standing here.

As I sweep I’m still jealous of the me,
who with a tip of his head, can activate
a micro gravity well in his composter.