a tanka
*
in the eye’s corner
fluttering in photographs
psychopomps gather
watching for the autumn’s fall
listening to poetry
*
by Gail
Poetry
Fie Sir, thou art a Troll
(a response to a provocative post)
*
Your voyeuristic anal post
Has got me choking on my toast
I should have better things to do
Than commenting on sex and poo
Whilst everybody likes a joke
‘Tis somewhat niche, the anal poke
Night up the alley, hard to see
For those without a front door key
What people do behind closed doors
With wives or husbands, friends or whores
Is up to them when with consent
I question, sir, your post’s intent
We English hide within our castles
No comment when it comes to assholes
Trolling really gets my goat
Fie, sir, flounder in my moat
I hope your banal gasket’s blown
Write what you know and get your own
*
by Gail
Changing the Soundtrack
(the bells of St.John the Baptist, Devizes, go Pete Tong)
Sunday, summer, church bells chiming
Ringing patterns, sounding light
Ancient forms of echo, rhyming
Complex rhythms, bounded, tight
Resounding voices throng the breeze
As tower captains keep in time
Wise bells with personalities
In sacred music, old, sublime
Last month the bells went out of sync
And changed the soundtrack of the town
No one heard but me, I think, but
‘Twas the Stranglers, “Golden Brown”
(dum, dum, di dumdumdum…)
by Gail
Singing Vincent back to Life
(A sonnet for Seth, the Bath busker who made me cry)
Beneath the Stall Street Colonnades he sings
Of Vincent and his starry, starry night
The echo of his bright resounding strings
Infusing scintillating rain dropped light
As weary shoppers rest and take a breath
His voice falls low and sweet upon the air
By painted shades of Vincent’s starry death
Drawn forth, an ancient sorrow hard to bear
Hot tears spring and mingle with the mist
And brim and well and fall upon the ground
In blues and greys, like Vincent’s canvas kissed
By grief and madness; blesséd joyful sound
Of one man’s voice, uplifting, sweet and strong
The grave of Vincent opened, with his song
by Gail
Dissing Disney: dismal karma sonnet
Dissing Disney Dismal Karma Sonnet
(a true story)
“Don’t make me go to Disneyland!” I cried
Fourteen years old with all the angst that brings
They made me go and something in me died
Depressed by all the fake and plastic things
The second time my parents made me go*
Was in my twenties, Paris, lucky me
I sulked; I’m an aesthetic snob, you know
Too selfish to enjoy my children’s glee
The third time was the worst, the fuss I made
At thirty odd, made odder still by drink
I tried to run, got caught in a parade
The final Mickey piss take; now I think
I want to go to Dismaland! Bad luck
For can I get a ticket? Can I f**k!
by Gail
*without artistic licence, and from the perspective of the present, this sentence would read: “The second time my beloved parents kindly paid for me and my children to go to Disneyland…!”
Banksy’s Joke
I want to go to Dismaland!
I’ll thcweem until I’m thick!*
I have blisters on my fingers
From the endless futile click
There’ll be secretaries on it
Pulling non-existent strings
There’ll be rumours of a con
On social media and things
I want to go to Dismaland
And see the horrid stuff!
How come I can’t buy tickets
And my money’s not enough?
In the shadows Banksy chuckles
He’s got the Art World in his hand
He has turned pretention on itself
As planned
by Gail
The phrase marked with * is a quote from Violet Elizabeth Bott, from the Just William stories, who was a very spoilt footstamping little girl with ringlets and a lisp…
The Gift of Eros
Aloft flies Eros; mischief fluttered wings
With silent rustle whisper overhead
By arrows pierced; the hearts of knaves and kings
The chilly grave, the restless lover’s bed
Blue London air, red Piccadilly light
Above the shifting crowd and constant noise
In summer heat, in neon and the night
He aims his slender bow with perfect poise
Aloft flies Eros; underneath his feet
As shadows of the Circus slowly shift
I contemplate my own love, bitter, sweet
The wound that Eros wrought in me, the gift
And as I turn my tears up to the sky
A pigeon drops an arrow in my eye
by Gail
Feathered Air
If flame there was ‘tis gone, all passion spent
Men long dead or demented tell no lies
No track or trace remains of where they went
Of whether they were wicked or unwise
If scent there was ‘tis blown, in feathered air
Decaying roses, lilies, ashes, mould
Unburied memories of who was there
A whisper on the wind, a rumour told
If blame there was ‘twas ours, for being blind
For keeping silent doubt for all these years
In tangled groves the truth is hard to find
As unmarked mad men’s graves; weep hopeless tears
For smoke there is, all round us like a cloud,
Obscuring the light of fire from the crowd
by Gail
Empathieves
my first sonnet…
Are empaths thieves, of feelings not their own?
Like magpies stealing precious shining rings,
They see the pain by strangers’ faces shown
And understand our secret hidden things
Our tears run down their faces, our delight
May swell their hearts with love or blood or pride,
Fond friends, or someone lonely in the night
Who saw us on the telly and who cried
Unwitting thieves perhaps, but nonetheless
Possessed of power to bless or else to curse,
They know our soul while others merely guess,
May mean well and may love us much; far worse
The psychopath, who sees us without feeling,
Devoid of empathy, beyond all healing
***
by Gail
Transient Flame
For Steve
Transient Flame
*
How time flies;
Like birds and bees
Transient nectar
Deciduous trees
*
How leaves fall;
Like stars in sky
Meandering streams
Passers by
*
How oceans flow;
Like blood in veins
Wind over mountains
Bloom strewn plains
*
How life flames;
Like a fire fly
Light in the shadows
New born cry
*
by Gail
gailfromdevizes 