Poetry Blog by ray pool


Dear Quentin Crisp, I feel you should

have been re-planted as a tree,

preferably a willow, having learnt

the tricks of beauty in cross winds.


Your leaves could be as silk

pocket handkerchiefs tumbling;

thin branches your arms wafting

like the tired springs of automata. 


Flowers should be left at your feet,

so dandy and neat,

a message of congratulation pinne...

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A train terminating in Troon

brings Harry and Megan to town.

The Lord Lieutenant will carry the pennant,

there'll be swapping of keys and a spoon. 


Harry will wear his kilt,

Megan dressed up to the hilt,

Mrs Fitzpatrick will open her cafe

tastefully rebuilt. 


Penelope Keith will be there

with wonderful teeth and hair,

Megan Markle will be sure to sparkle,


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A thief comes in the night

scooping memory from reluctant skulls.

Next day, a little more gone. 


He tucks the memories under his coat,

casts them to the four winds like ashes. 

Another grey head laments, where is my mind?


Next he steals orientation; 

more lamentation. 

The thief is always busy throwing things away.


"No use to me, he says,

I cast fates t...

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We inherited the Empire

Hearts of Oak

and school desks,

surrounded by proud maps

of our world possessed, 


teachers living on in ancient jackets

or long skirts, rheumy eyes

haunted by the war,

while our inkpots were primed.

A scooped trough held pens

with push - on nibs


scratching some semblance of sense

to those who judged

fair or foul intent.


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The woman pushes her babies

five at a time in the well-used buggy,

bag lady to the untrained eye;

but the babies are dolls we see

all cock a hoop jammed in

jostling for air and space. 


No one passes the time with her,

and she seems unaware,

too rigidly focussed to notice others'

consternation or disbelief.

Then there is our relief

of walking past, putting dist...

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The flash of a blade on giddy steps,

the camera a sniffing dog

searching for clues in puddled dark. 


Two shadows meet with desperation

then flee from prying eyes. 


Passionella waits in the sombre light

of a dingy room,

looks down at the street

watching for watchers,

the gauloises glow. 


A soft knock comes.

He is there with his crooked smile,


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