Day Twelve: Shaun

We bought a patch

on a perfect day in Hebden Bridge

from a haberdasher's after lunch

before we marked on Hughes' hills

a stick in the ground- a point to say

We loved it here. Amongst the landscape

We detached the everyday

perhaps that patch can fix the jeans

you love to wear. Perhaps the patch
Will fix it up. 

Day Eleven: Shaun

Dreams

If I had a pound
I'd buy a lottery ticket
In the hope the luck will prove
to come in threes, you'd marry me
live a quiet life in a poet's cottage
near our favourite place to write.
Sadly, people don't drop quids
the coppers easy but not the nickers
so I'll work again tomorrow
check the pavement for loose
change. 

Day Ten: Shaun

Cohabitation

Low fat, low taste
Low salt, low waste
Packaged up in a stack
of bags for life.
Health up, fat low
My Dad must not know.
My Dad must not know. 

Day Nine: Shaun

To the poet.

If I could write the verse you pen

perhaps I would feel fragile too.

The fall must seem an awful way

from watching us, in awe of you.
I learn about you every day
find things on lines not seen before

I guess the pressure is pretty tough
I cannot lie though, I'm still in awe. 

Day Eight: Shaun

Changing the Weather.

Tomorrow I will quit the fags
save forty quid a week in a jar
and determined, will pay for a holiday.
This, of course, will not happen.
All health benefits will be dashed as
the jar will be raided for crisps
fizzy drinks and parking change.
A holiday though, would be nice;
much more achievable than learning to run. 

Day Seven: Shaun

To a lover.

Making a move in the supermarket aisle, 

I brought you home. Took the risk 

and noone saw us anyway so we're okay. 

This email comes from me at work-

I wish I was still there with you, 

with your sweet taste, I cannot wait.

I cannot wait. 

I've thought of nothing for three days

but your tight suit- I cup and squeeze an empty hand

in the absence of you here. Are you still there, 

where I last felt you- perching on the kitchen side

-I'm home tomorrow and will eat. 

Will liberate you from that glistening green 

get up you wear with my bare hands.

 

Fingers peeling at the smoothened creases of your skin

will delve down deep in giving flesh to pluck and feel

your seed, swollen within your sticky midst

you're ripe for me my dear, I know.

My avacado, I can't wait.

Day Six: Shaun

I've been away all day today so apologies for a little bit of a late and rushed attempt. Blackpool won and I found vegan cake next to the ground at Watford, which was a result. Anyway... a very early draft of something.

I'm sorry.

On the day we played manhunt
I pulled your hair in the woods
Threw sticks to land right by your hiding spot
Skulked off on my own, with care to look carefree

You were never going to win anyway
But I figured prizing you out of your shell-
getting you out first would be best.
Then  you chased me. I'm sorry it took all that. 

Day Five: Shaun

Decisions.


Turncoat Jenny caught her fingers in the till
Got disapproving looks from the butcher
& the man from Greggs. We all knew
she subbed in the General Strikes.

Dad told us not to talk to T.J.
Said she was a bad un'
Left us out in the cold to jump
into bed with the scabs.


That Jenny did it all for love
meant jack to my old man as he stuffed
another fiver in his rainy day fund
a Tolpudyll Martyrs cup, lest he forgets. 

Day Four: Shaun

On talking with a world cup winner. 


I pinch myself every Monday morning
when West Indian batsman Kanhai comes in
to pay his weekly newspaper ticket, ask my opinion
as if I were the expert on the latest match.

Off the field, we share thoughts of almost equal value
as I blag my way through the Test results, wait
with all the 'adventurous attitude' his Wiki page
attributes his game, for mine. Then we talk footy


I know the ins and outs, off and on sides,
I was there and saw it all with my reporter's eagle eye
He caught the highlights. I am no expert
and those focused eyes know as much


but you've sucked me in, Rohan Kanhai.
You could flash your bat anytime for me
Come to the park, we'll pretend it is Trent Bridge
I'll relish every run of your 253. 


*R Kanhai, cricketer, achieved a Warwickshire best of 253. His international career best of 256 in Calcutta, vs India offered no easy rhyme... I'm working on something for this early draft. 

Day Three : Shaun

I'm completely getting snowed under by all the writing! Two short ones today then. One to sum up the mayhem of panic buying, be it fuel, food, stamps (yes, the newsagents have sold out!) or good old cold weather items. The second short one is just me looking forward to life after the said cold snap... roll on the summer!


Panic


De-icer is in
Behind the door all marked up
Special offer, look.



Festival


Summer. We head out
Go wild in fields caked in mud
Forget and cut loose. 

Day Two: Shaun

Today was a bit of a strange day. I have had a poem coming with it all day and am not quite sure if it is quite finished (in fact, pretty sure it may become a sonnet). Anyway, here was my effort for day two: something for a neighbour of mine.

Neighbour for Malc


The words came hard today, my friend, you left
so many here behind to mark your pass
Always, too soon. Two hundred prayer booked hands
is no mean feat- I trust you found your God.


Saturday was a good day to sunbathe
I could have kicked ball after ball over
To share one more crafty fag behind the fence-
a sentimental, picture frame moment.


A birthday party, apt, I saw you last
an anecdote shared and a pint of beer
you made me laugh, said, 'See you love' and left.
Don't worry mate, the world knows you were here. 

Day 1: Shaun

I have been itching to get on here and start posting a poem a day ever since I found out about the idea. I'll do my best to get something almost finished up daily but, I suspect it could be a tough month. Good luck to all the local writers trying this out, I think it is a great idea to have us posting on the same page. I'll try not to be the one that lets the side down. Enough of my rambling though, here is my poem for Day One.

Penny. 

At the back of your drawer

behind a Gideon’s Bible and a pencil case

I peeled off the old Penny.

Blu Tack masks a once proud coat of arms

while stern faced Edward looks away,

revealing none of his secrets under inspection.

He is worn out, his face in anti-time

bears not one wrinkle, only thumbprint

felt out by my own hands as I pushed him back.

I cleared that drawer some time ago.

Dated and reasoned that a coin worth next to naught

Was her final witness to time once spent;

The time once lost, forever sought.