A TOUCH OF NOSTALGIA

Sonnet-style, though not a sonnet in the accepted sense, this poem is as described in the title, a snapshot from long, long ago.

SNAPSHOT                                                             

That day, with the Atlantic at your back,

you screamed when breakers splashed your thighs with spray

as though it had decided to attack

your alabaster body to repay

you for your trespass. In that moment, I

raised the Box Brownie, quickly clicked a snap, 

and trapped your image, woman, water, sky,

the romance tempered by your bathing cap.

That golden August day down in Kilkee,

I wrapped you in a towel for the heat.

We clung together so contentedly,

while restless summer tide caressed our feet,

and made a childish, reckless teenage vow.

The snapshot yellows in an album now.

For verse of a different kind, why not visit: https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/

LOOK OUT

As we become increasingly addicted to social media, time slips by as we scroll aimlessly through newsfeeds or tweet about trivia. 

As sentient beings, we seem to have entirely surrendered themselves to the powers of social media and this poem attempts to engage with that.

 

IMAGES

This is a tree, he said and pointed to a tree.     

We have seen images, they said.   

There are many trees, he said. This tree is cedar.

We have seen images, they said.

Here is a flower, he said and pointed to a flower.

We have seen images, they said.   

There are various flowers, he said. This is a rose. 

We have seen images, they said.

This is a cat, he said. See it moves. Watch it stretch.

Just like the images, they said.

This is a dog, he said. Watch as it wags its tail.

Images are better, they said.

That is the sky. Those small birds are swallows, he said.

We have seen images, they said.

Over there are blue mountains and a lake, he said.

May we go back inside? they said.

 

TAKE TWO

When my late father, proprietor of retail footwear outlets in Belfast, encountered a customer who couldn’t decide between two different pairs of shoes, he used to suggest that they bought both. 

Here I am, today, echoing that sensible suggestion.

Don’t just buy Barking Mad, written by my clever wife, Jane Mosse: why not buy Stark Raving Bonkers as well. 

Both books follow the misadventures of Rob and Christine, innocents at large in the amazing world of pet-sitting. 

They're each available through Blue Ormer Publishing

https://www.blueormer.co.uk/?page_id=162#!/Stark-Raving-Bonkers/p/495534517/category=48142471

or at Amazon UK.  

 

LOVE AND DEATH

Like many who write verse, I tend to be overly preoccupied with subjects such as love and death and these come together in this Gothic sonnet.

THE RETURN

Last night I visited our home once more

but in my dream the house was greatly changed:

leaves lay, unswept, upon the bedroom floor,

the chairs, once orderly, were rearranged

as though a host of ghosts had gathered there

in heavy darkness to discuss the way

the space should be apportioned, how the air  

should be imprinted with their foul decay.

I found myself transported in my sleep,

one moment to the stairway, then the bed

where, in those final hours, I’d watched you weep

to the old priest who sat with lowered head.

That was the day when I chose to depart.

Last night, in dreams, I came back for my heart.

For verse of a different kind, why not visit: https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/