The Poet Called Gorringe

There was a young poet called Gorringe
Who was after a rhyme for orange
With a tinge of regret
Said, I’ve not found one yet
As he sucked on a peppermint lozenge

Help

She came out of the house
Holding her broken jaw
Her husband
Helped her to the car
Arm around her
Protecting her from the prying neighbours
Who bang on the walls
In the early hours
When the whisky
Takes over

7

Around the corner
Sweep five sleek black limousines
Moosh, spelt in flowers

6

Five pegs – red, green, blue
Huddle on the line strung
Across the fire escape

5

A cup of coffee
The patch of sunlight creeping
Slowly round the bed

4

Waiting at Hayward’s Heath
The carriage lurches forward
Crumbs on seat

3

Clouds edge the horizon
The boat is two hours late
I can smell basil

2

My dog is lazy
Sometimes he moves his eyelids
As if to say, Hi

A Week of Haikus 1

A rectangle of white tape
Teaches horses
The value of geometry

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

You can watch the sky
And the wind patterning the grass
And try to understand the ways of sheep
But you’ll get bored
In the end
Or fall asleep.

Wolf! You cry out.
You blow your whistle, ring your bell,
Call the wolf hotline on your mobile phone
And the villagers come.
But there is no wolf.

Later, you try it again.
This time making it sound more urgent.
Come quickly. The wolf has carried off a new-born lamb!
The villagers come.
They are angry. You are sorry
But you know you’ll do it again
Before the long, dreary day is through.

And where the trees meet the slopes
As the evening fades
The wolves are gathering

Unseasonal Weather

Here, in the Loire Valley, snow.
A small English boy is amazed to learn
That sled is pronounced sledge.

Happy New Year

The radio tells me it’s the season
Of love and understanding
Which is a great relief
After the preceeding season
Of hate and incomprehension

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Snowbound in France right now with dodgy internet connection. But hopefully normal blogging service will resume soon. Happy 2009.