ON A WING AND A PRAYER

Once, when in Brussels, I visited the Musee des Beaux-Arts and saw Pieter Bruegel's Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, a truly impressive painting by one of my favourite Old Masters.  

The Icarus story is one we can all relate to: a tale of a young man whose ambition overrode his judgement.
Which of us has not, at one time or another, aimed impossibly high and consequently been brought crashing to earth when reality shone its fearsome rays on our ludicrous aspirations.  

ICARUS

I am falling from high
but they do not notice.

The air, through wings 
that promised much,
keens like a mourner.

Creeping ants below
evolve 
to shepherd, ploughman, angler.

I fall unseen. 

Someone
will dream it later.

I have no time
to scream.

The water is 
hard as stone.

SPINNING WHEELS

While living in Italy some years ago, I watched a young man cycling in our village with a child strapped into a seat behind him. It brought to mind excursions with my daughter when I was young and we lived just outside Edinburgh. Constantly impoverished, I travelled about on an old junk-shop bicycle with my tiny daughter perched precariously behind me in a rickety seat that wobbled alarmingly when we went over bumps. Ah, the recklessness of youth!

CYCLE

The living world sails by, complete:

strange images engulf her; sounds

pour into her; she is caressed

by air, safe in the old bike seat

behind her father, the firm mounds

of his buttocks against her chest.

A young child, perched like a nestling,

in the metal-framed basket-seat:

his firstborn.  A small miracle,

the proud father thinks his offspring,

and to him, in the noisy street,

she clings, tight as a barnacle.

He pedals hard, pursued by time:

like roulette wheels, the bike-wheels whirl.

A breeze, around her soft hair, sings

with lyrical, unreasoned rhyme.

Euphoria engulfs the girl:

her arms reach out like stubby wings.

A TIME TO DANCE

It’s disquieting when a child discovers that its parents have identities other than those of Mother and Father and that the stranger hidden within the familiar shape has his or her own fears and yearnings, dreams and doubts. 

HIS MOTHER DANCES

Crouched on the stairs, he sees her dance:

her feet glide over lino squares,

the wireless playing sweet and low.

She waltzes, as though in a trance,

alone, amidst pans, table, chairs, 

white kitchen sink: her eyes aglow.

Those slender arms grasp empty air:

her partner is invisible.

She circles, sweeps and murmurs words,

song lyrics or a lover’s prayer.

What seems to him incredible

is how the music, like small birds,

whirls round his sleepy, tousled head

and makes him sad. The dancing stops.

His mother, hungry for romance,

settles for washing plates instead;

talks to herself, while he eavesdrops.

His father never liked to dance.

THE SEARCHER

Looking back, I had a sometimes vexed relationship with my father as sons often do, I suppose. 
He was, in many ways, an introverted man, largely because of his hearing loss, and one of the strongest images that I have of him, from my childhood, is of a stern figure bent over the family Bible, silent and pensive, completely oblivious of his surroundings.  

THE FISHERMAN

My father, 
grey as a heron, thin
as a wafer, 
the Good Book spread before him 
like a silver pool
would sit for hours
unmoving, silently still,
his bald head bowed, 
one finger poised
as though to spear a mystery.

Oh my dear father,
what beguiled you there? 
What held you 
rapt
while, slowly, slowly, 
ticked the clock?

What strange fish lay, 
unmoving, deep
within those well-thumbed pages?

 

POETIC LEANINGS

Often the verse precedes the image but occasionally vice versa. This one fell into the latter category and seemed such a funny photograph it just had to have an accompanying poem.

SLOPING PARTNERS

This is the tale of Edgar White

who, when he walked, sloped to the right.

He met a woman, Emma Greft,

who had a leaning to the left

so, happily symmetrical,

a courtship, geometrical,

developed and the couple soon

were married with confetti strewn.

They made their vows. The knot was tied

and, luckily, the aisle was wide.

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED

I've always enjoyed lighthearted verse but, like so many people, considered it a low form of poetry. Perhaps it is but, during this strange and joyless period in our history, I've found that writing verse of that type has improved my mood considerably. I'm not advocating rhyme as a cure for existential angst but it's certainly helped me. Here's the first of a season of what might well be described as 'ridiculous rhymes'. You'll find others on my Facebook page:- https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564

REX CANEM POETA

An obscure poet known as Rex

wrote poetry that was complex.

His sonnets and his villanelles

were all about obnoxious smells

or lamp-posts, pavements or of trees

and urination, if you please.

Lord Tennyson, Wordsworth or Keats,

none ever wrote of doggy-treats:

yes, daffodils and things like that

but none had ever chased a cat.

Rex sits and types, the poems mount:

at least a hundred at last count.

Indeed, it seems he had the gall

to write a poem about a ball

and how, each time he brought it back,

he was rewarded with a snack.

He’s written, now, a roundelay

about a bone, oh dear, let’s pray

that canine poetry’s a fad.

The fellow’s clearly barking mad.

BARKING MAD FOR CHRISTMAS

Barking Mad, Confessions of a Dog Sitter, is the title of a very amusing novel by my wife, who writes under the name Jane Mosse.

It's an excellent, 'feelgood' read and, at less than a tenner, would make the perfect 'stocking-filler' at the end of this unnerving year. If you're a fan of James Herriot and All Creatures Great And Small, this book will appeal.

Barking mad also seems like a suitable strap-line for the following piece of whimsy. It's been a while since I posted a Micro-Fiction piece so here's one that I hope will make you smile. 

FOR LIFE, NOT JUST FOR CHRISTMAS

Gordon was too macho to go to the doctor when the dog bit him on Christmas Eve. No doctor: no tetanus. Shit happens and the bite wasn’t serious. The dog itself didn’t seem particularly serious either: a big ungainly mutt with a daft expression, wearing the remnants of a suit and tie. The clothing puzzled Gordon. At home he bathed the wound with disinfectant. Neat puncture marks. Nothing to worry about.  

Worry set in a week later when the moon was full. Hair sprouted on Gordon’s hands; his teeth became fangs; a reckless hunger overwhelmed him. Stumbling outdoors in pyjamas, he bounded across L'Ancresse Common, driven by an instinct beyond his control.  

What’s happening to me? he howled. And howled and howled and howled. 

SEEKERS

In the spring 2014 Jane and I spent three months living in a small rented house in Italy. 

Situated in an unprepossessing village that had somehow managed to escape the notice of the multitudes of tourists that annually flock to Tuscany, the house was basic, clean and comfortable.

The long lazy days provided us with an opportunity to immerse ourselves in a way of life which was totally different from that of Guernsey.     

We were the only English-speakers in the area but were made to feel welcome and soon slipped into the languid rhythm of life in a hot southern climate.

At night the garden was lit by fireflies and an open door would attract moths. One such moth is the subject of this poem.

 

LA FALENA

A moth came in at the screen door

attracted by light as moths are.

It flickered like a small dark fan,

here and there: I could not ignore

its plight and trapped it in a jar,

released it outside. Foolish man:

moths will return, against the odds,

seeking out light as we do gods.

EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE

I read this poem at an open-air venue beside beautiful Lake Orta in Italy a decade ago when Jane and I attended the Poetry On The Lake Festival, a prestigious annual event attended by leading figures from the world of contemporary poetry. It's proved an enduring favourite.

SUITCASES

Crouching in attic gloom, 
where skylight beams illuminate their pool of silver dust, 
old leather suitcases doze like alligators 
dreaming their prehistoric dreams.

They sleep soundly having eaten up my father’s life ...

the photographs, the hearing-aid and collar studs,
the safety-razor with its rusted blade, 
the letters 
and the wallet with the ticket stubs ...
  
yet I am so afraid 
that when I kneel beneath the skylight 
to prise apart those sagging, alligator jaws,
the life that I will find compressed within 
will be too small 
to match my memories of him.

EDGAR ALLAN POET

October is Hallowe’en month and, by coincidence, the month that the master of Gothic horror, Edgar Allan Poe, died. 

Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American writer and is best known for his poetry and short stories, particularly his tales of mystery and the macabre.

Here’s a small tribute to him in the form of two dark little poems.

GARDENER’S QUESTION TIME

Your garden is magnificent:

the fruit trees pruned, all hedges trimmed.

Hours, countless hours, you must have spent

in keeping every lawn-edge strimmed.

Where do you get the energy?

It is a mystery to me. 

 

Oh, I don’t manage on my own:

I keep some zombies in the shed.

They work all day and never moan

for, after all, they are undead.

I feed them cats to keep them mild 

and now and then a neighbour’s child.  

That rose bush, too, is wonderful.

Do you use chemicals or what?

The answer is immensely dull:

nutrition from organic rot.

Think of the rose bush as a wreath.

The postman’s buried underneath.

NIGHT-FRIGHT   

Something’s moving in the dark.

I’m sure I saw a shadow there.

Why does the dog refuse to bark

and cower there behind the chair?

There’s someone outside near the tree:

a trespasser, it seems to me.

His outline is misshapen, grim,

inhuman almost, to my mind.

Won’t you go out and challenge him?

No, stay, I won’t be left behind.

Lord help us now, I hear you groan:

no signal on the telephone.

The door is strong, the windows too

and yet I cannot help but scream

when his warped face comes into view:

a creature from an ugly dream

He glares in at us through the glass

We find ourselves at an impasse.

The door is smashed. He’s broken in.

He’s fury-faced and murder-eyed

We cannot flee to save our skin

for we are frail and terrified.

He snarls. I see his fangs and snout.

I feel his breath. The lights go out.

 

BEWITCHED, BOTHERED AND BEWILDERED

Bewildering Stories is an international webzine that publishes unusual, often bizarre, tales in the form of flash fiction, serials, short stories, reviews and much, much more. It’s a fascinating site and well worth a visit. It also publishes the occasional poem. My poem Red Umbrella appeared in Issue 856.

RED UMBRELLA 

It rained. 

You held a red umbrella high,

leaned into me and whispered, 

Sod the rain.

I realised that something had begun

that was unstoppable. 

Time’s devoured 

a lifetime of embraces since that day.

Now pain spreads like a red umbrella

as you lean into me. 

The pillow, like an angel’s wing,

kisses my bloodless lips.

 

MISTER BIG

Over the course of, what feels like a long life, I’ve had numerous stories and poems published in various long-forgotten literary magazines, pamphlets, and latterly, online webzines, not to mention at a few ‘public art’ locations. Recently, my short story, The Big Guy, found a place in the exotically-named Taj Mahal Review, an international journal based, as you might surmise, in India. I think I can say with some confidence that this is my most remote publisher unless, of course, you include cyberspace, where all good webzines reside. 

The Review can be purchased online for a mere $20 or, if you’re a skinflint like me, you can read it below free.

THE BIG GUY

Phil fell for the coat the moment he saw it. Luxurious chestnut leather in a style that could only be Italian: Armani perhaps, maybe Gucci. And extra-large, Phil’s own size. He absolutely had to have it.

It hung on a retro-style coat stand beside the maitre-d’s desk right there beside his own battered topcoat.

Phil reached out to stroke the soft leather and knew he was in love. 

The bill had been paid, cash as always, and the desk was unattended. It was his last night in Bangkok. On impulse, he grabbed the leather coat, slipped it on and headed for the restaurant’s revolving doors.

Outside, the oriental night was a kaleidoscope of neon: a frantic cacophony of noise and hustle. Phil hailed a passing taxi and ordered the driver to take him to the airport. 

Phil levered his bulky frame into the rear seat of the Toyota and replayed the events of the last three weeks: a crazy roller-coaster of wins and losses, but mostly wins and lucrative ones at that.

A natural-born scammer, Phil saw other people’s money as his for the taking and if that left them penniless, well, tough shit, no one said that life was fair.

That elderly couple he’d met in the bar of the St Regis: English, like himself, but alien as Martians. They’d taken to him right away: clearly saw him as a local character, a big guy, full of smiles and ex-pat bonhomie. They were old-school, superior, patronising and greedy: the marks were always greedy when you got down to it. And their greed was the key, that magic key to unlock their wallets, bank accounts, the lot. 

He’d scored on that one and no mistake. They’d be lucky, when they discovered just how thoroughly he’d cleaned them out, if they could even afford a weekend in Skegness.

At Suvarnabhumi airport, Phil checked his ticket and admired his profile in a washroom mirror. The richness of the leather looked fabulous and the coat fitted him perfectly. Its former owner must have been a big guy too, broad across the shoulders. It was in great condition, so the punter must have taken care of his clothes. The only flaw was a small tear in the lining of the left side pocket, but that could be sorted when he got back to London.  

Checking his watch, Phil, joined the queue at Security. With only a laptop as luggage, he knew he’d be through in no time. 

Security was visibly high with groups of Thai military stationed at every turn and uniformed police working the concourse and seating areas with sniffer-dogs. 

Slinging his laptop and leather into a waiting tray, Phil, stepped through the metal-detector arch and collected his possessions when they’d passed through the scanner.

He was coming out of Duty Free when two Thai policemen approached him with a black Labrador. Phil relaxed and stood still while one of them walked the animal around him. When the dog abruptly sat down, he was nonplussed. He never touched drugs and certainly wasn’t a terrorist, so what what the hell was this about?

Twenty minutes later, Phil knew the answer. Two small sachets of pure heroin had been retrieved from the lining of the leather coat. They had evidently slipped through a tear in the lining of the left pocket. 

Phil was a big guy and the shiny Thai handcuffs felt uncomfortably tight.  

REASON TO RHYME

Here's a poem about poetry for National Poetry Day.

WHITE SOIL, BLACK SEED                                                                      

White soil, black seed, I sow in lines,

an alphabet of words in rows:

stark characters that germinate

as, slowly, boldly, I compose

a field of verses, two or three,

approximating poetry.

Reader, a season later, you

will harvest crops that I have sown

then bind in sheaves and subtly add

an indefinable unknown.

Only when poetry is read

is it as nourishing as bread.