poring away

poring away


a tottering table a toddler

a teapot a reaching hand

a fast vast scalding scarring flood


a stick-waving young boy shouting

with tears ‘stop fighting stop swearing’

ignored by screeching mum and dad


eyes tight-shut out of sight

under a kitchen table until discovered

fingers at his throat squeezing


the orphanage window afternoon stroll

of the first black people

to enter his entire universe


eleven-plus growing tall

Munich air-crash morning seeing

the playground over the primary wall


grammar school days rubbing shoulders

with high-flyers failure is success

of sorts come last it’s best


annual cross-country race whole school

lining the course first place shock win

shock applause hero for a day of smiling


teenage jobs teenage crushes

typists’ laps kissing tonguing lips

but never breasts no never those


smoking hash dropping out hitching

anywhere mushrooms bombers

a lift to Southport meeting Shirley


her gradual unbuttoning

a climbing into bed a doing of that

that mysterious wonderful thing


wet-eyed watching her walk away

hand-in-hand her future secured

by a surer better lover


girlfriends jazz northern soul

marriage children fatherhood

 l.s.d Glastonbury finding god


a dice-rolled train-ride north

preaching Jesus long-haired penniless

despised by sinners and godly alike


university reading English churning

ornate essays on acclaimed mediocrities

learning much to no good purpose


marriage derailed by poverty 

no blame no time for that

children to raise women to love


black women white women

fat women thin women

married women single women


strange women sane women

holy women profane women

hippie women straight women


profound women shallow women

smoking non-smoking women

Greenham wimmin women and god


lazy afternoon love-making with

a beauty in Whitby half-watching

Hillsborough unfold on tv


cloistered in silence

seeking out self sifting elusive dancing

splashy phantoms of memory


wave-dancing moments erupt

vie for attention submit to inertia  

fall away are replaced


he stares hard at a droplet

it bears a likeness

but it isn’t him

◄ hello goodbye

on Arran with Aoife ►



Tue 4th Dec 2018 11:34

Well, Kate, there is much left out - lotsa pain, lotsa pleasure, like life really. We're all getting 'there' ?

<Deleted User> (19913)

Mon 3rd Dec 2018 13:00

I feel as if those close to me are strangers. If only they left lyrical, rhythmic breadcrumbs of their lives, such as this. I savoured every word. Thanks Rick, you never disappoint.


Mon 3rd Dec 2018 12:01

Thanks both - poemographic - I ditched tv and internet yonks since - getting hassled by tv license boogie man ha ha

Hazel - I've edited it - added a little more - the thingis, as I see it, why write poetry and hide away - anyhow although it is not finished - no poem is ever finished - it is getting 'there' - maybe by next year's book eh? x

Profile image

Hazel ettridge

Sun 2nd Dec 2018 21:14

Wow. What a baring of your life. More please.

Profile image


Sun 2nd Dec 2018 12:21

Great piece of poetry, I did not like it.... I loved It!
But WOL don't have a button for that.

I think I'm watching to much TV ;)


If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message