Richard Tingley

26.

In the tea steamed cafe,
away from the frothing white
and churning brown sea
with ears stung numb with rain
and jaws struck dumb with cold
We abandoned our seafront walk
and swapped screaming gulls
for china chink and coffee hiss
and the clunk and squeak of chairs
and cakes so large
you could sail to France on them.
If the sea was calmer.
And the wind wasn’t blowing crows off course.

I’ve been trying to write this poem for a little while. It’s about a day out my wife and I had at the end of last year. I’d taken notes for it but couldn’t pummel it into some kind of poetic shape. I’m sort of happy with it but it ends weirdly.
Another one to work on I think.

25.

I am often one of several bears.
Sometimes Grizzly.
Sometimes Polar.
Sometimes Brown.
Sometimes Black.
Today, I was the one with the sore head.

Sorry, this is the best I can do today, I am quite tired and the bear idea came to me as I was waiting for for Wife to pick me up. I don’t know why.

24.

Early rise, morning shamble
Floorboards creaking, clumsy amble
down the stairs, make some tea
up the stairs, spill the tea
Wobbling desk, squeaking chair
racking brains, nothing there
from pen to page to empty head
drink the tea, go back to bed.

Just a little insight into my morning routine.
Ironically this is the quickest poem I have written so far.
I’m not even sure if that is irony…

23.

The Fox, fur streaked with dirt
close calls and lucky escapes
body, thin from fights and foraging
caught the eye of
Me, coat keeping out the cold
disconnected and blessed with easy options
body, fat from fast food and fallowing
For a second, caught in each others gaze
One, gawping and grinning
the other, just trying to survive.
The more sensible of the two
broke the stare and vanished into the undergrowth.
I took a puff on my inhaler
and continued walking.

This happened on the way to work this morning.
The Romantic in me would like to think that in that moments stare there was some sort of connection between me and the Fox, some kind of understanding.
In reality it was just a fox staring at an enormous shape on a bridge then buggering off. Nature can be cruel, but not as cruel as the over-active imagination of an idiot with a pen and time to kill.

22.

I carry a small pocket moon.
Handy for all tidal emergencies,
sudden necessary werewolf transformations
or for cloudy midnight Sabbats.
I lend it out to certain people
but make sure it is not used for
Sacrificial purposes unless
I am invited to the barbecue afterward
and no humans have been involved.
It is full, but can be made to Wax
and Wane using a torch and a carefully
positioned Ping Pong Ball.
It has a fitting for stick.
It has been accidentally washed twice
and thrown in anger on several occasions.
It came with several stars,
which have been lost to the Vacuum Cleaner,
and was initially purchased as a gift
for a loved one.
It was returned when they had no more use for it.
I have stopped lending it to Romantics to
stare wistfully at.
No good can come of it.

Just a bit of nonsense for a Sunday.
I’m not actually sure it’s really a poem, although it might be a Prose Poem, or it could just be a bit of prose with spaces in it. Either way, I like it and claiming it as poetry. Also, I’m going to record it and put it in a podcast.

21.

The young sore thumb
I stick out among
the ancient frail faces
squinting with interest
at the visiting artist

Deep set glassy eyes
stare from sallow cheeks
Impasto painted in strips
from grey to pink
creased in thought

Pens in hands,
thin mottled skin
stretched across rickety frames
of sticks and wire, take notes.
What paints, what brushes.

I pick up tips and tricks
and consider this.
When I am at the deepend
of my life.
I’ll still have things to learn.

I belong to an arts and craft society and occasionally go along to meetings, today being one of those days. Safe to say, it’s not a thing that “young people” go to, and despite not exactly being a spring chicken, I am the youngest there.

20.

I saw it
perched high
like a black
shroud sentinel
at the top of the pine.
Ragged and tatty.
Flapping and cackling
Calling in Shadows
to take my soul.
I saw the Crow
for what it was
no omen of death
or feathered shadow
of impending doom.
Just another
bird in a tree.
Despite this
I turned up headphones
to drown out it’s call
and hurried away.

I like Crows actually, but they do have stigma and superstition attached to them which sort of adds to their appeal.
I think I might want to add a little Magical Realism into my work, and whilst this Crow poem doesn’t really have much to do with that, it feels like a sort of a step in that direction. Saying that, I love writing about my childhood and have no intention of stopping writing those poems.
I have all year to explore this stuff.

19.

It was a mask.
Black and baggy
poorly made
but enough
to keep my identity safe.
I was to walk the village streets
A Masked Avenger
righting wrongs
saving lives
and when there was no
crimes to fight
I could knock on doors
to see if citizens
were alright
or if there was anything
I could do.
A Boy Scout of Doom.

To prepare for my life
as a costumed crimefighter
I would don my mask
climb out through
the bathroom window
onto the flat
tarmacked roof
and stare moodily out
into the Car Park.

And that was about as far as my Super Hero exploits went. It’s a shame, think of all the pensioners I could have terrified turning up on their door steps wearing a black, executioner style hood and asking of they wanted anything.

18.

Out of the corner of my eye
whilst attempting to dislodge
a paper jam from somewhere
in the toner dusted gloom
of the photocopier,
I catch site of a small boy
laying on his stomach on the carpet
waving his legs to and fro
surrounded by paper and pens
drawing a complicated fight scene
and making the noises
of the tanks
and the missiles
and the explosions
unware
that the phone is ringing
and I’m counting down the minutes till lunch.

I think this is fairly self explanatory.

17.

At the bottom of the sock draw
in the brown Formica unit
in the room I shared with my brother
at the back of the caravan
folded in shame
but fraying from use
was the page I pulled
from a sunday supplement
showcasing a number of
female celebrities.
Topless

It occurred to me that when I was living in the caravan on the fishing lakes, I must have been around Thirteen and probably struggling my way through unusual and strange feelings involving girls, so a lot of my memories from back then have a certain theme to them.