—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
FROM EQUINOX TO SOLSTICE
From Autumn Equinox to Winter Solstice,
green holly shrubs dotted with red berries.
Andre wrote Natasha a letter every night,
wishing her well, and their baby sweet dreams.
The torchlight was dim, the air frosted.
From Spring Equinox to Summer Solstice,
White and pink apple blossoms came and went.
Natasha dreamed of Andre every day,
hoping to touch his face, hold his hand.
The sun lit faintly on the debris of the city.
From Autumn Equinox to Winter Solstice,
green holly shrubs dotted with red berries.
Andre wrote Natasha a letter every night,
wishing her well, and their baby sweet dreams.
The torchlight was dim, the air frosted.
From Spring Equinox to Summer Solstice,
White and pink apple blossoms came and went.
Natasha dreamed of Andre every day,
hoping to touch his face, hold his hand.
The sun lit faintly on the debris of the city.
EQUINOX
A boy wonders:
Why is there so much sunshine near the Equator
and so little near the Poles?
And why are the days so long in summer
and so short in winer?
A girl asks:
Why does my brother go to school
while I can’t?
And why don’t I have new clothes and shoes
as he does?
Both hope
the Equinox
will change things
for the better.
WETHERSPOONS
In my mind there is an ancient, magic gadget:
compass-like, animal horoscopes revolving
in a charmed circle, the bowl rotating
on a magnetic plate, the handle pointing
towards rain and sun, predicting
weal and woe, good and bad fortunes.
I saw men and women walking in
and staying on, unlimited refills
of coffee in the mornings, fish and chips
and burgers in the evenings, salt and pepper
and ketchup spicing up the blend taste, cider,
beer and gossip washing away all sorrows.
Wetherspoons are not the magic, magnetic
weather spoons that I have imagined.
They are nevertheless still a comfy place
to shelter from good and bad years.
TRAINERS
I wasn’t born into the gleaming shelves
of JD Sports or Sports Direct, smirking
at you with my gleaming beam. I was
born in the hands of the women working
in sewing machine-booming factory floors
for long hours, on shifts, day and night.
Their gentle smile added to my comfort.
Their warm gaze padded me with insulation.
The hard skin on their hands buffered my tenacity.
They didn’t own me, couldn’t afford it,
had to give me away when I was born.
I carry their smiles, tears, hopes and dreams,
missing them, and wishing them well.
RIGHT OF WAY
A young man and a young woman walked
towards us, hands linked, eyes glittering,
smile gleaming. Unmistakably in love.
Uncompromising happiness. You and I
had to step down the narrow pavement
to give way, as we often do, thinking that
we also have right of way, wondering why
we don’t hold hands with each other as they do.
ROUTINE
In our daily, post-dinner walk,
you let out a pleasant cheer:
Someone’s taking over that newsagent.
It’s going to be a barbershop.
Another barbershop? I frown.
There’s already three in this area.
We walk down the deserted high street,
A woman with silver hair staggers past.
I sniff the air: She must smoke a lot.
You nod: I saw her smoking fags
at the corner the other day.
Asthmatic coughs from a distance.
We smile at the friendly Indian guy
with a small, black dog on the leash,
gently telling her to stop yelping.
We fumble in our pockets and then
apologise to the man sitting
at the entrance of Poundland.
The leaves are turning green,
and brown, and then gone.
Our gaits are getting slower,
hair saltier and pepperier,
words fewer in-between.
We walk on, day after day, following
the same road, remarking on the same
things—well, almost the same.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Poverty is the thief of dreams.
—Unknown
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to BritPal Hongwei Bao for some more of his fine poetry today!
For more about Wetherspoons, go to https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wetherspoons/.
For future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
