Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
GROWING PATCH
For years it was a briar patch,
the spittoon for my tar babies
where dog-ends crouched and mucked about,
a wasteland, harsh for lions’ teeth,
few tattered rugs for undergrowth,
a two-piece suite though downside-up,
no longer-fire-resistant kite
flying as passers tipped more dump.
Deep roots beneath the mats required,
agent orange or napalm spray
from TV dinners, Nam and eggs;
but then despite my settled view,
like greenstick-fractured sapling torn,
my seasoned outlook snapped in two,
algebra working in my bones,
now marrow spreading, open-flowered.
New groundwork digging in my mind—
a landscape under my control,
working not against, with the clay,
the carpets floored a compost heap.
I burned brambles, skipped furniture,
nightshade cleared from the deadly dock,
laid grass where the couch had strayed,
from mattress rot, created beds.
Now creepers climb where nettles rashed,
an arbour necklaced jasmine gems,
prim roses replace trailing dogs;
the paving crazed, thyme on its stones,
the garden broom flings seeds about—
while honeysuckled by the bees.
Herbaceous fills the spacious soil—
I put flags out to celebrate.
(prev. pub. in Here Comes Everyone, 2020)
For years it was a briar patch,
the spittoon for my tar babies
where dog-ends crouched and mucked about,
a wasteland, harsh for lions’ teeth,
few tattered rugs for undergrowth,
a two-piece suite though downside-up,
no longer-fire-resistant kite
flying as passers tipped more dump.
Deep roots beneath the mats required,
agent orange or napalm spray
from TV dinners, Nam and eggs;
but then despite my settled view,
like greenstick-fractured sapling torn,
my seasoned outlook snapped in two,
algebra working in my bones,
now marrow spreading, open-flowered.
New groundwork digging in my mind—
a landscape under my control,
working not against, with the clay,
the carpets floored a compost heap.
I burned brambles, skipped furniture,
nightshade cleared from the deadly dock,
laid grass where the couch had strayed,
from mattress rot, created beds.
Now creepers climb where nettles rashed,
an arbour necklaced jasmine gems,
prim roses replace trailing dogs;
the paving crazed, thyme on its stones,
the garden broom flings seeds about—
while honeysuckled by the bees.
Herbaceous fills the spacious soil—
I put flags out to celebrate.
(prev. pub. in Here Comes Everyone, 2020)
ROWS
A strange condition for a row
amongst the headstone rows that flank
the hill side cemetery,
that hangs and flows,
marble chips and chips off marble, chip paper,
scree of lager cans and driven flowers;
sunlight bearing on the granite backs,
lapidary curlicues of the shade.
Does she entreat or remonstrate
as they pace on and through the slabs,
an avenue of undying love inscribed,
he silent, power-walking ahead against the wind and mood?
She, some pace behind,
outstretched arm and cupping hand towards him,
relaying, I assume,
the beg to hear her, or impress the point, backhanding.
I wonder if, affected by the tight-clipped yews
and angel wings and comforts versed,
and likewise outstretched arms,
she solicits advocacy of heaven.
But as I muse on irony,
the hope of ancient dead to hold sway,
to influence for good,
I realise that in her extended hand
is her phone.
(prev. pub. by Ink, Sweat and Tears, 2019)
PICKINGS
The dipper, rocking on his bolder watch,
alert, in crowded camouflage, discreet,
magnetic hands at ten to two, scarf smoothed
with charm, the smile and words to reassure,
observed by none, a gesture, token, trove
to join the piling posts in fencing shed.
Grandfather’s own from Normandy,
the wallet slipped, worn-leather shine,
is soon binned skip, of no account,
what worth that life-held photo snap?
It sandwiched with paninis, wraps,
pork chops and pȃté, jumbled food.
Surveying bins for easy trash,
amongst pre-packed day-before date,
she saw pigskin beneath the tripe,
patina pointing to her Dad—
before the crush about her life—
and needed it before the scraps.
Her whorled prints scraped the bacon fat,
and there the image, pipe in mouth,
for grandparent she never knew
became the pin-up she withdrew.
Between the paper sheets and card,
it tucked, her corrugated love.
(prev. pub. by Sparks of Calliope, 2019)
The dipper, rocking on his bolder watch,
alert, in crowded camouflage, discreet,
magnetic hands at ten to two, scarf smoothed
with charm, the smile and words to reassure,
observed by none, a gesture, token, trove
to join the piling posts in fencing shed.
Grandfather’s own from Normandy,
the wallet slipped, worn-leather shine,
is soon binned skip, of no account,
what worth that life-held photo snap?
It sandwiched with paninis, wraps,
pork chops and pȃté, jumbled food.
Surveying bins for easy trash,
amongst pre-packed day-before date,
she saw pigskin beneath the tripe,
patina pointing to her Dad—
before the crush about her life—
and needed it before the scraps.
Her whorled prints scraped the bacon fat,
and there the image, pipe in mouth,
for grandparent she never knew
became the pin-up she withdrew.
Between the paper sheets and card,
it tucked, her corrugated love.
(prev. pub. by Sparks of Calliope, 2019)
WARMER FLESH
Citizens of empty city,
former journeys fill eye bags;
temp accommodation offered,
only if get rid of dog.
But she only understanding,
she alone has need of me,
not regarding me as nuisance,
sidewalk swerving, eyes avert.
But as world self-isolating,
social distance outside home,
lay-abouts that litter pavements
better swept to hostel box.
Pigeon hole for those not fitting
into model life-style set,
but that fix ignores my closest;
life’s a bitch, if me or her.
Where would others choose for shelter,
cleaner sheets or warmer flesh?
Rather share known breath of puppy,
panting tongue and wagging tail;
others share the bed of lover,
I would, pavement, kennel pooch.
(prev. pub. by Indolent Books, 2020)
Citizens of empty city,
former journeys fill eye bags;
temp accommodation offered,
only if get rid of dog.
But she only understanding,
she alone has need of me,
not regarding me as nuisance,
sidewalk swerving, eyes avert.
But as world self-isolating,
social distance outside home,
lay-abouts that litter pavements
better swept to hostel box.
Pigeon hole for those not fitting
into model life-style set,
but that fix ignores my closest;
life’s a bitch, if me or her.
Where would others choose for shelter,
cleaner sheets or warmer flesh?
Rather share known breath of puppy,
panting tongue and wagging tail;
others share the bed of lover,
I would, pavement, kennel pooch.
(prev. pub. by Indolent Books, 2020)
DYSLEXIC GAMES
My cut-out work, order excised,
the lingua scooted franca by,
as written codes are in a spin,
that first impression, plumped for term,
but first edition, draft, revised.
Imagine, me, reading your words,
when orchard trunks are worn for swim,
an orchid seen, such fruitless leap.
From capital I take the lead,
or is it plumb from column head,
the problem, read, when seeing red?
I before E, save after C,
rule pointless, if after, before.
I take the plunge, recall the sounds,
but syllables beyond my count,
as if a haiku, different sums.
If shape my mouth, they think I’m deaf,
but trial and error only test,
a plunger diving, U-bend blocked,
the structure fractured, disjointed,
my reading age reduced to eight.
That’s why I use the gift of gab,
my moving script performed, not scanned,
until they note, page upside down,
pretend my glasses left at home;
a strategy, dyslexic games.
(prev. pub. by Ariel Chart, 2021)
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
How beautiful the leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.
—John Burroughs
______________________
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), who retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies. See more of Stephen at poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/.
Hard-working Poet Stephen Kingsnorth has already appeared in the Kitchen several times, for which we are grateful, and we hope that he will continue to drop in whenever the spirit moves him!
______________________
—Medusa (Californians—Did you remember to turn your clocks back?)
My cut-out work, order excised,
the lingua scooted franca by,
as written codes are in a spin,
that first impression, plumped for term,
but first edition, draft, revised.
Imagine, me, reading your words,
when orchard trunks are worn for swim,
an orchid seen, such fruitless leap.
From capital I take the lead,
or is it plumb from column head,
the problem, read, when seeing red?
I before E, save after C,
rule pointless, if after, before.
I take the plunge, recall the sounds,
but syllables beyond my count,
as if a haiku, different sums.
If shape my mouth, they think I’m deaf,
but trial and error only test,
a plunger diving, U-bend blocked,
the structure fractured, disjointed,
my reading age reduced to eight.
That’s why I use the gift of gab,
my moving script performed, not scanned,
until they note, page upside down,
pretend my glasses left at home;
a strategy, dyslexic games.
(prev. pub. by Ariel Chart, 2021)
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
How beautiful the leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.
—John Burroughs
______________________
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), who retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies. See more of Stephen at poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/.
Hard-working Poet Stephen Kingsnorth has already appeared in the Kitchen several times, for which we are grateful, and we hope that he will continue to drop in whenever the spirit moves him!
______________________
—Medusa (Californians—Did you remember to turn your clocks back?)
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Just remember:
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clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
