Here we go, here we go, here we go1 Danny’s at the wheel2 We’re here, we’re there… 3
Is this a library? 4 My garden shed is bigger than this It’s got a door and a window My garden shed it bigger than this 5
We forgot that you were here 6 It’s nice to know you’re here… 7 You must have come in a taxi 8
You don’t know what you’re doing 9
He fell over 10 You’re going home in a Pompey ambulance 11 It’s a miracle! It’s a miracle! 12
Is there a fire drill? 13 We can see you sneaking out 14 You’ll never make the station 15
Taxi for Carter 16 Bye-bye, bye-bye 18
Who ate all the pies? 19 You...! 20
n.b. NaPoWriMo April 2022 Day Thirty prompt: Lines from other poets. Well artistic licence applied here – feeling de-mob happy, tbh!
Sources: 1. Crewe Alexandra, Gresty Road, 2022 2. Fratton Park, 1980s 3. Various 4. Sheffield Wednesday, Hillsborough, 2022 5. Shrewsbury Town, The New Meadow, 2018 6. Plymouth Argyle, Fratton Park, 2016 7. Luton Town, Fratton Park, 2017 8. Accrington Stanley, Fratton Park, 2015 9. Cheltenham Town, Whaddon Road, 2022 10. Wycombe Wanderers, (Too many times to mention). 11. S*********n, Fratton Park, 1984 12. Most match days. 13. Tottenham Hotspurs, Wembley, 2010 14. Peterborough United, London Road, 2018 15. Brighton & Hove Albion, Fratton Park, 1976 16. Sunderland AFC, Roker Park, 1995 18. Tottenham Hotspurs, Wembley, 2010 19. S*********n, St Mary’s, 201020. For Graham Poll, Referee playing as the 12th man for Arsenal in his last match at Fratton Park, April 2007.
what would
we
do
if
he
dropped
bombs
here
?
as we
saw
it
fall
we'd know
it's all
over
for
us
!
would we make up
where we
could offer
necessary apologies
long overdue
balance our
consciences
play music
say one
final I
love
you
?
~
n.b. NaPoWriMo 2022 Day Twenty-eight prompt; Concrete poem. I have to admit to having had such thoughts lately. Day twenty-eight of NaPoWriMo 2022, but day Sixty Three in Ukraine.
unseasonable warmth petite clouds white buds pinned to infinite blue fine grass blades grass by the millpond prick my pale winter skin my flat weight crumples daisies in cool shade of the willow’s weeping
tumble of the waterwheel low hum of bumble bees
chiffchaff
chiffchaff
chiffchaff
with eyes closed I see all the birds I hear from within this sonorous wall soft notes a woman’s song
so tired so tired so tired
my head so heavy it cannot turn my eyelids stuck down by pinks and blues my arms so heavy they will not move my legs feel bound they cannot run my voice clasped tight within my throat I hear her singing
she sings of lilac yet to bloom
she sings of lambs not yet sprung
she sings of hedgerows nestlings yet to fledge
she sings of the stream yet to flood
she sings of oak still to leaf
she sings of the summer yet to burn
she sings of two lovers yet to meet
she sings of harvest we’ve yet to reap
she sings of apples we’ll collect
she sings of mists that will rise from dew
she sings of the plough that will tear the earth
she sings of crows that will draw in the night
she sings of frost that will veil the soil
she sings of the fireplace as autumn leaves
so tired so tired so tired
slowly I wake remembering how far I must go before I finally reach my home
~
n.b. NaPoWriMo 2022Day Twenty-five prompt: write an aisling.
She suffered fools the way a cat strips feathers from a blackbird hauled indoors through the cat-flap.
When she spoke she held a man's attention, like a foot soldier's attention holds when the Field Marshall approaches down the line.
We'd met by chance, the kind of chance you'd have crossing Interstate 495 in rush hour wearing a blindfold.
It had to be a set-up, the kind of set-up Kasparov would only use on a fellow Grand Master.
I was suspicious obviously, the kind of suspicious a cop gets seeing a rucksack left on the subway.
But there was something about the dame I liked, something akin to the strawberry jam you find on top of Devon clotted cream on a warm scone that you hear about from Limeys.
Maybe it was the blue in her eyes, a blue you would normally only see in a mural when touring the Sistine Chapel?
Or was it that laugh that disarmed me like a Muhammad Ali left jab to my jaw?
Underneath I sensed a heart, albeit hidden the way an eye lens dropped in the Great Plains is hidden.
I managed to hold my nerve, the way a catcher holds a fastball from a Hall of Fame pitcher.
But inside I was shaking; palm trees in hurricane season shake less.
I was putty in her hands that day, putty moulded by a glazier after a bomb-blast.
She held me, not unlike ransomeware holds a bank database.
I knew if I stayed I would end up paying a price, a price only an Atlantic City loser would ever understand.
Coops balanced against each other defying gravity along the embankment like sentry boxes facing south marking the entrance to Sunderland its beach in April offered a slice of Siberia Roker Park the taste of bitter defeat
~
n.b. NaPoWriMo 2022 Day Twenty-three prompt: a poem in the style of Kay Ryan. My kind of poem. I love April, when spring is vibrant, the weather cruel and football reaches its season end. This brief poem is based on a grim day out on 11th April, 1993, but hey, Sunderland stayed up that year, which was nice, for them.
One of the darker months The phone rarely rang Her typewrite ribbon fresh The keys unimpressed Cartridge paper laid in the tray Gathering a carbon copy of dust Once the post was checked Orders filed and queries placed in pending She'd roll the chair under its desk Lie on the floor And sleep
Next door, under neon I sat each day Writing out lists of prospects From Kelly's Directory and Kompass Industrial estate after industrial estate Postcode by postcode For the territory salesmen Occasionally compiling a report about small electrical domestic appliances Or drafting the blurb that would sell Slow cookers, steam irons, sandwich toasters I turned up most days Before the news of Lennon I couldn't imagine
She and I spoke so rarely I forgot her name, she mine The thin-windowed false wall Partitioned us Her with perpetual weariness Me with accumulating grief I wonder still What brought us together?
Voyage des Mots 