LYING IN WAIT

Unlike the Psalmist's 'Valley of the Shadow of Death', Murder Mile is a place where a Theosceptic walks unaccompanied.

                   

MURDER MILE            

I’m fast approaching Murder Mile

and can’t resist a rueful smile:

who ever thought I’d live so long.

These days I simply limp along

in puzzlement that I’m not dead

but I expect to be waylaid 

soon by some thug or else his mate,

those brutal swine that lie in wait,

with sharpened blade and filthy tongue,

if you’ve the cheek to not die young.

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

DOT, DOT, DASH, DASH

A short poem written whilst on holiday in France where, unlike Britain, the rail network is affordable and appears to work. 

BY RAIL

The scenery is moving fast,

the present changing into past

so speedily it dulls the mind

as what was there is left behind.

The distant hills, the greenery,

the hulking farm machinery,

the cattle, sheep, sometimes a horse,

are dashes, dots, a kind of Morse

transmitting messages, the kind 

received by the subconscious mind.

Enthralled, I watch this moving map,

abandoned novel in my lap.

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

ON TARGET

Here's a humorous antidote to the depressing headlines that confront us these days.

 

AUNTY GUN               

It must be said about my aunt,

she wasn’t very tolerant.

If, on the beach, she saw a sight

that she deemed rude or impolite

she’d fetch a rifle from her kit

and promptly take a shot at it.

In consequence, chaps in tight briefs

adorned with slick Speedo motifs

or ladies, vast, bikini-clad,

that, in aunt’s view, were twice as bad,

were struck in his or her kazoo

with pellets from her 22.

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

HUNGER GAMES

I've not posted Flash Fiction for quite a while so here's one from the archive, an early attempt at the genre, based on a bit of local hearsay about a derelict cottage in County Down, Northern Ireland.

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS   

The police said Old Walter’s death wasn’t suspicious: heart attack it seemed.  We knew they were wrong but couldn’t prove it.  

That bastard, Rutter, had bullied the old boy unmercifully, using his status as Estate Manager like a bludgeon, once even threatening to have Walter’s beloved dogs put down. 

We all feared Rutter’s rages and felt sure that one such outburst had provoked Old Walter’s collapse.

The rumour that Walter’s life savings were hidden in his cottage sent Rutter there immediately, not caring that the poor man had only been dead a week. 

Using his master-key, Rutter entered the cottage and, to avoid interruption, bolted the door, then, for good measure, pushed a heavy cupboard across it and began his search. 

He only remembered the dogs when the first one lunged at him. The other two Dobermans, starved for a week, circled him hungrily.  

AT LOGGERHEADS

A modern yet timeless theme for today's poem.

THE QUARREL

Some conflict forced the two of us to choose

to step apart or try to reconcile. 

Hot-headed, both of us, we let the booze

decide for us, both guilty without trial.

Friends sought to intercede, provided cues

for us to meet: we missed them by a mile.

When one said yes, the other would refuse,

the reasons or excuses, versatile.

We neither one would wear the other’s shoes.

Resentment grew and, with resentment, bile

that poisoned everything: each would accuse

the other of disloyalty and guile.

A thought occurs, which we dare not speak of:

that hatred is the dark sibling of love.

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