A HARD RAIN

The complacent progress of one's life can so easily be jolted out of kilter by a disturbing medical diagnosis, the sudden loss of a loved one or, sometimes, nothing more seemingly innocuous than an unexpected letter.

THE LETTER

The day seemed unremarkable:

another day like every day.

I fed the birds. 

The postman came.

I set aside the envelope,

a plain white thing, perhaps a bill,

no matter, it could surely wait.

The boy who brings the newspaper

delivered it as usual.

I read it carelessly. The news

is never worth more than a glance:

an earthquake there, somewhere a war,

more knife-crime in the capital.

I stroked the cat, drank one last cup

and then I picked the letter up. 

Some words can overturn one’s world,

destroy what plans one might have made.

The message read, I let it fall

then rose, stepped out 

into the rain.

The beech trees stood, 

immovable,

their branches, formerly so bare,

unfurling leaves of gentle green

like tiny sail-boats casting off

to voyage from the shores of spring

and all around me, restlessly,

the flowers were reawakening.         

Rain-drenched and cold, I stood and wept,

regretting promises not kept.   

 

MUG SHOT

As a long-time fan of American crime writers Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler and the many ‘Noir’ films that their novels inspired, I once wrote a lengthy narrative rhyming poem, Bullets at the Bank, that has yet to find a publishing niche. 

Alongside it I wrote a number of ‘shorts’ in a similar vein, collectively entitled Mug Shots, as homage to the old American black and white films that I so enjoyed as a boy in the 1950s. 

Despite their brevity, each tells a story. 

Here’s one of them. It’s probably best to read it with a pronounced American drawl. 

  

THE DUMB-ASS GUY

What kind of dumb-ass guy am I 

to screw my life up for a dame? 

She tells me now, two weeks too late, 

she’s married to a guy can maim: 

a goddam killer, that’s no lie.

Turns out this gal is murder bait. 

I’m holed up, like a jailhouse rat,  

regretting how it all began 

with that doll’s cute, seductive drawl. 

She’s gone. I’m working out a plan 

but, goddam, it’s like singing scat: 

my plan don’t make no sense at all. 

DO NOT GO GENTLE ...

As I grow older, I find my response to age an interesting one and probably not untypical. We're enjoined to 'grow old gracefully' but, as time takes its toll, how many of us can?

SNAPSHOT

A dapper man, old fashioned hat,

formality in clothes and stance, 

and by his polished shoes, a cat,

as he glares at the lens, askance.

It must be after the Great War 

in nineteen twenty-three or four.

My grandfather. I only knew

him in his sad, declining years:

a dodderer, with tie askew

and all too quickly moved to tears

perhaps for what we all must lose

that cannot be restored by booze.  

THE WAITING GAME

When two people in a close relationship spend much of their time together, separation becomes obliteration.

ABSENCES

I switch on lamps as daylight fades,

draw blinds against approaching night.

Dogs start to bark, cats start to prowl.

As silence settles down like dust

the endless day begins to end.

Slow clock hands creep. Four walls encroach.

The ceiling, like a flower-press,

weighs on my shoulders, drains from me

my spirit, breath, my energy,

while in the mirror nothing lives. 

I pour a drink, pick up a book,

sit in my chair opposite yours

but cannot concentrate to read

so close my eyes and try instead

to bear your absence like a wound

that I’m assured will surely mend. 

Indeed it will, I know, for when

a week from now, with speeding heart,     

I greet you from a landed plane

we will, of course, be reconciled.

Such temporary absences

provide a terrifying glimpse

of what bereavement must entail:

the agony of injured time;

the futile days that never end.

The ghosts that linger after death

are those the dead have left behind

who wander lost in empty rooms,  

companions now with tears and dust: 

the living that are not alive.

A FOOL'S GAME

I tend to post my more serious verse and fiction here on Bard at Bay and steer my more lighthearted material towards my Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564). Now and then, however, I feel there’s room on BaB for a spot of levity, hence Romance? No Chance! featured below.

ROMANCE? NO CHANCE!

Most great romances end in tears.  

Dead Romeo and Juliet

is an example. Tristan too,

his love for Isolde a bet

he lost. So, sadly, it appears

that too much love’s not good for you

and as for all that love-song crap,

it only lures you to a trap.

Best stick to books if you want love:          

romantic novels don’t cause pain: 

a tear or two, perhaps, but soon                 

you can forget and start again.

It’s best to give that stuff the shove.

Who needs the stars? Who wants the moon?

Be a romantic if you must.

Not me, I’ll opt for simple lust.

WAR OF THE WORDS

Written in response to last month’s Poetry Open Mic theme of “Romance”, The Quarrel is a contrarian’s take on the subject. 

I hasten to add that it’s not autobiographical. 

THE QUARREL

We had, perhaps, too much to drink.       

You mentioned some love from the past

and I, in jealousy, replied

too hastily, harsh words were cast

like stones, but little did I think

that moments later, angry-eyed,

we’d escalate from stones to knives

and, with sharp words, would cut and rend,  

trade insults like colliding trains,

each with our corner to defend.

This morning, nothing much survives.

In our bed-sitter what remains

is one spent candle, blackened, dead,

its wax like tears, an upturned chair,

a carpet stained with spilt red wine

and, what now fills me with despair, 

the memory of things we said,

words we can never reassign,

angry, malign, your words and mine.

 

IN MEMORIAM

“A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote.”

Yevgeny Yevtushenko

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

Laurence Binyon

THE RAILWAY LINE

(For John Simpson)

We walked together side by side,

at dusk along the disused line,

restless and glad to be outside.

I had Woodbines, you brought cheap wine.

Fifteen, unthinkingly alive,

truants from our suburban drive,

we talked excitedly of life

how we had cracked it, knew the score.

We worked the cork out with your knife

then drank sweet wine and wanted more.

We smoked our fags, ignored the cold,  

could not imagine being old.

https://arts.gg/talent/richard-fleming