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 8: Lara

Escapism

Out of cardboard boxes, we would construct

a rocket ship, painted midnight blue and pressed

with potato-print crescents. An unsteady window

cut into one panel, so we could see the stars.

We carried it out into the garden, placed it in a clearing,

on the crazy paving, and wedged ourselves inside.

I counted down the seconds to liftoff, while she

created an echo and covered her ears.

I image that cardboard rocket ship, still sturdy with brown tape;

but it looks smaller now – as if it only has space for one. 

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 7: Lara

Cereal

She’d always remove the free toys from the Coco Pops and Frosties.

Said it would prevent arguments. That they’d be collectables in the future –

if they were left unopened and kept safe.

When we sorted through her possessions years later, we found them

crammed inside two shoe boxes – the plastic wrappers still sealed,

until we pulled them open, returned to our childhood

and were thankful she’d taken them away.

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 6: Lara

Good Friday

While I stay at home –

tidy, clean and wash his clothes –

he goes to football.

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 5: Lara

Sunday School

Dried pasta Jesus,
straight spaghetti hair.
Blackcurrant squash
in disposable plastic cups.
And red covered bibles
that we were allowed to take home.

Time's Thief

TIME's THIEF

"Writing is 90 percent procrastination:

reading magazines,

eating cereal out of the box,

watching infomercials.”

—Paul Rudnick

Relax - trying will not ease the flow
of inspiration from skull to fingertips,
but that porridge and toast you made
earlier will energise enough for words
to wend circuitously however nerves
transmit images of the tarred street
we played on, and the voices: Kay's,
Sonia's, Martin's, Cynthia's, Sue's.
Even that ad for Audi blinks eyes awake.
We travel from lanes to highways,
but memory meanders us back to hedgerows,
ditches, wildflowers, bees' buzz and birdsong.

(c) C. J. Heyworth April 2012

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 4: Lara

Pretending to be a rabbit

He places his hands at the side of his head,

points two fingers upwards

to create rabbit ears.

He starts to hop, bending his knees,

springing forwards

and says: Ribbit! Ribbit!

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 3: Lara

Moth

Etched silk threads, millimetres from glass; 

and fossilised moths –

scattered across the greenhouse window pane –

like cured truths.

As I pull last season’s tomatoes

from the ground,

I think of cloaked women sentenced to

death; nooses around

their necks, walking towards sycamore.

It’s branches are strong

and will hold their weight – be memory

on hilltop,

lingering like a autumnal night,

like moths around bonfire light.

Day 2.

On the slanted light a word, a remark

will find its feet, stop meandering lift

your spirit just enough to stop a march

into an abyss, as if getting the gist.

More rare than this the randomness settles.

spending some time asleep, letting you watch

an unstubbled youth easily wrestle.

solve equations of loves that once were botched.

These salvations are more usually

carried incomplete, imprecise to here

where your dreams spill the blood of memories

and you can hear your mother say, don’t fear.

Her words, those talismans against nightmares

are dancing with dust motes, wearing tears.

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 2: Lara

PETS:

Snowy

was my first pet. A white goldfish

that changed colour every year

and always looked a little different.

Gingerbread

was swaddled in patchwork blanket,

tucked inside a plum doll’s pram

and pushed around the garden.

Dublin & Huckerby

would move into new shells when

they got too big for the old ones.

When my favourite strikers left,

the hermit crabs were given new names.

Stick

The small plastic tank was busy with cut privet,

and each branch looked a little like Stick.

Sidney

was found in the garden, chewing

on one of mum’s pretty flowers.

If I licked my palm and placed him

in the centre, he’d slowly emerge.