When I Say English And Pretend I Don’t Mean Weak #DVersePoets #OpenLinkNight

I’m very English sometimes,

apologising

to the stranger staggering by,

shoulder swung into mine,

sorry caught in the air

with the dust cloud he trails.

So I’ll repeat

in case repetition makes up

for distance,

for an inability to find fire

until much later on

when I am a city or more

away

and still thinking about bone

and muscle

and a sharp snap of ‘move

now!’

No please.

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Image by Grae Dickason from Pixabay

Waiting In The Wings #DVersePoetics

I braided a basket of my fingers,

in case I was required to catch

you

if you fell from any sort of height

or perhaps needed a boost

to reach a shelf

or a step

on a ladder I could hold

once I’d unwoven these hands

to grip the rungs better

if you eventually decide

to climb.

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Image by Pexels from Pixabay

 

 

From Her Side Of Things #DVersePoets #MondayHaibun

Someone comments that she’d never really worked. Not a proper job. Not a nine-to-five, sit down at a desk, shuffle the papers, count the numbers, find the words sort of job. She just ‘helped’ her parents in their shop, then ‘helped’ her husband.

At Christmas my mother, her daughter, takes the carving knife. Skills become ingrained when you park a pram in the backroom of a butcher’s. They get passed down on generation to the next. Not always perfect, but present like the bark and callous of their hands when they take mine. Evidence of everything they’ve given.

She says she never really worked a proper job, not a nine-to-five, like I have. Passes me the cutter for scones that won’t be as good as her mother’s, because she hasn’t got the knack like she had. She was only ever ‘helping’ not working, not like her daughter does, not like I do. She was only ever there in the background.

Autumn is not Spring,

but beauty still grows in her

and there is worth there.

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Some Days – Modern #LovePoem No. 3… I Think

Some days I don’t need a husband

I need scaffolding.

So I can tend to the broken,

the busted windows

the cracking paint,

the guttering that doesn’t drain

when the rain comes in

and all the sediment

circling the drain

but never quite clearing.

Some days I need that from you,

and nothing more.

Out In The Garden – #DVersePoets #MondayHaibun

The peas have podded. I’m not sure if it’s the snap, or your bog standard, good old trusty garden type, but they’ve podded first with the white petals of the flowers still stuck to the green of their shells.

Inside the crop is still too small, too young. I checked today. Popped my nail into the seam, slit through the flesh, cracked it open. New growth, old book. They both sound the same.

They are not ready for harvest, but when you bite down they explode. They taste like spring, or summer, or something else that’s hot days and sudden rain storms. They tasted like they should do. New and fresh.

It’s been a wet one,

this spring, this downpour of water

thickening the green.

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