Category Archives: Uncategorized

Knot

The Knot of Hands

Hands tell a tale, even in

fractured lives, in

crowded places where a

hand helps, in the

silent bed where a

hand slips over hip

seeking fingers, in the

tight knot of

life lived in all its

knotty impossibility.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit.)

 

 

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Pizzeria

In this achingly modern eatery

there is nothing to distinguish

staff from customers and

endless uncertainty

who to wave at, who to

casually ignore.

 

My pizza arrives, the

ingredients so

carefully selected

unevenly spread, with

acres of barren dough like a

life with only

occasional pleasures, the

bare bits usually

left until last.

Jet Stream

Fridayam's Blog

Midsummer mocks us with

bluster and chill and we

shrill of climate change while the

Jet Stream goeth

where it listeth

shrieking west to east to

simmer Summer somewhere.

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Vagaries

Fridayam's Blog

Summer warms but rarely inspires me, being

English, preferring the vagaries of weather, the

indecision of days torn between

blue, black, grey, white and their

insubordinates, bookended by

salmon split and cooked  slowly, someone’s

blood spilt, seeping, drying,

dying out into those

ochre bars which smear the

Summer Moon, under which

I sit strangely content,

oddly wanting.

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Joan the Puzzle

Fridayam's Blog

I wrote you wrong, but it seemed

simpler than explaining such an

admingle of girl and boy when I was so

callow and eager for success and

Henry 6 was my mark and

mark it made but

later I learnt to write such women,

so many newfangled figures

fairing my plays, girls played by

boys, none having your skill with a

sword nor able to

cross-dress with your aplomb but

you’d beaten us so I wrote you as a

whore, a madwoman, a Catholic, a

heretic, a witch for which we’d burned you but

most of all I remembered how our

cloth-eared soldiers mispronounced you

–not la Pucelle but the

Puzzle, which is what you are,

puzzling me still.

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Older or Younger?

It’s hard to respond to the

insouciant rudeness of the young,

but then I was once so

certain of my rectitude,

wrote paeans to pain,

love-lyrics to unattainable and

frankly unsuitable lovers,

belittled a warm home and

bewildered parents, blamed

bosses and politicians and even

implicated the innocent

Moon in my moanings.

 

Am I better in old age?

Don’t I still rage at the

nightly news, bristle at some

shallow social shibboleth?

Do I not fall in love, or

lust, at the drop of a hat?

Am I not still prone to

enthusiasms, losing people,

making their eyes glaze?

Is the Moon not still

sullied by my

perpetual poetic probings?

 

So I ask you, am I

better older or

should I give in to the rude

insouciant adolescent

hidden within me?

Perfect?

Who can ever write the

perfect love poem, half

heartache, half

heartbreak, completely

lost and almost found,

cast up on some

alien shore watching

buoys and gulls all

adrift on the same

choppy sea?

Little Women Making Loud Noises

Fridayam's Blog

I’m not sure Ms. Alcott had

this in mind but I love

loud women in my life,

singing their songs full-throated,

spearing their words through

vain assumptions,

shaking pulpit and

parliament and shouting

“harder, faster” into my

receptive ear.

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Wild Flowers

Thank God nobody is perfect for
love would have no
grip for its wind-blown seeds to find
cracks and crannies in
seemingly solid surfaces to
sprout and spread its
sharp tendrils to
cover what would have been a
bare wall with
wild flowers.

Opening Properly

The house grows old with us, and it’s

open to question which of us

creaks and complains more as the

stairs are climbed.

 

That tap takes two or three

turns to get going and the

flow is not

what it was.

 

That light in the kitchen

flickers and fails, but a

rap or two makes its

heart beat again.

 

That radiator never seems

hot until the key

lets out a

delicate brown fart.

 

That window never opens

that window

never opens

properly.

N A L I N D A

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