Poetry is my therapy

Give me a Hand A point with hairs  It’s rough and smooth But hard within.  A microchip skin overlapping.  It’s cold but warm with feeling.  A fitted glove  It’s amazing with its multiplications Five, ten, calculating digits.  A gripping device, A kaleidoscope of colours; Pink, black, brown, blue spots Dotted here and there.  Taken for granted, Stretching like elastic -  A safety device With a knuckle-duster - A fist of anger! I recoil - a lifting tool. Time to say “Hello, It’s nice to meet you,” To the other pinky on my hand.  A bionic machine of instant responses,  A golden circle of promises and love.  I point to the sky as I grip the steering wheel And accidentally slit my skin Fashioning a cut.  Deeply I hurt with a plaster.  A means of signing for the deaf  And a touch for the blind.  Tom Thumb rests by my side  With fingers cr...

Dandelion A wee wee of vanity Stings me.  A thorn of poison ivy, A strobing globe of light In the sky. A nuclear reactor of particles  Clocking as I stand motionless in time.  Tick-tock, blow away time We see a flat hat place With superglue of oxygen In my suit.  I breathe deeply for the rise and fall A mirror with five sides With a smile beaming down on me A man in white breathing carbon dioxide A footprint of endless art.  They rise from our kerb and  drown out rivers and Ducks leave.

The hooves of HedgeHunter - It’s bets on horses. Lucky with Songster;  War veteran from fields in Leicestershire.   The blacksmiths labour; The book Black Beauty.  Jockeys race as cowboys arrive In Land Rovers with horseboxes.   The ghost of Shergar -  Vets hoover straw in paddocks And the Lords gallop for Trooping the Colour.   Fox hunters bugle in protest - A chase against time with the bell from the Church steeple.  Ears sharpen my voice, neck to neck - Good news - Red Rum to celebrate! Godspeed to the betting shop; His finger to his shaking lips, With ladies’ hats  And champagne for their winnings - All at Aintree, As I go to a play called ‘War Horse.’

“The Last Post” by Rob Holt A German Broom in Bugloss fields - A Burning Bush with a red sea of salad.  As false winds Foxtail, Crowfoot wallows in mud And Lords and Ladies cross in zig-zag trenches.  Jack-by-the-Hedge peeps out at the Black Horehound, While Cats Ears listen for Creeping Gromwell.  A Bugle announces that Greater Burdock has won the Kingcup.  Scentless Gypsy Weed weaves through the Soldiers-and-Sailors To the Heather-clad mountain of Jack-in-the-Pulpit.  Hearts Ease as dead souls whisper “Forget-Me-Not.”

My home within a home  Is a fortress of blocked-out windows  And the artist Zorro.  The sharks knocking on doors; Just a wheelie bin for the Council, A gold shop of memories -  A buy-one-get-one-free Poundland With property ladders to nowhere.  In Fantasia Palace behind metal gates;  In Brooklyn with mud huts of the hunted of no plastic  The soldier sleeps on the streets , Everyone throwing away food; We scavenge on the Internet; An invisible place of mirrors; An empty bean can for charities As we sit in our houses.

London is a place to sleep  Say the homeless on the street The favourite place of the undesirable.  As I ride the London taxi to Sewer Street  To the path of the forgotten gold and rats -  No Pied Piper here; Just houses of forgotten gardens - A playground of children; The robot generation within two dimensions  Which one is reality? A suburb of let-out beds and clutter.  I scavenge for my meal and The microwave goes ping.   As I throw the cardboard in the bin outside  The man settles down to sleep

A 3D cheese sandwich in my shed  On my bed  As I float and see a Pot Noodle bearing down on me.  Pot Noodle coming out of my eyeball, Pot Noodle in my sock; I am sitting and watching Match  of the Day In marmalade with bits in colour  Not black or white  Not a game of chess Your move, checkmate  You’re not my mate  Just a plate  Of spaghetti bolognese  On a motorway in Birmingham; A jam sandwich with rats  And Kermit the Frog dead in smoke As I drink strawberries and lemonade  And watch tennis. One-love to Bear Honey; Come on, Paddington! As I sit in my London apartment The planes circle my roof  It’s exhausting, I can barely close my eyes.  The sweetest moment of the night has passed  As light kisses my lips