Five books for my Life

My childhood,

Eagle of the Ninth; Rosemary Sutcliff.

History lives for me.

My teenage years,

Arabella; Georgette Heyer.

First romantic stirrings, the rake wins.

A twenty something mother,

Far Pavilions; M M Kaye.

Epic India on the cusp of Empire.

Forty Four,

Five People you meet in Heaven; Mitch Albom.

Midlife, children grown, life changes.

Thud; Terry Pratchett.

My book to read and re-read.

My choice to wallow in.

Alien Cupcakes

 Two hands wooden spoon smoothed butter with sugar then eggs beaten; coco,

flour folded, metal not wood. Blue cases planted six by six by six;

small spoonfuls poured, pushed, filled cases. Baked

for fifteen glorious minutes; fingers shared bowl stuck batter.

Licked clean; sucked clean. Blue coloured icing sugar, glooped:

drizzled onto cooled cakes. Dark eyes placed; almost done. Cherry nosed.

Alien Red-nose Cupcakes.

Comic Relief cake sale: fifty pence each. Come by; come buy; good bye J

Desire

Another experiment, this time a prose poem.

Waves crash on shelved rocks, on yellow sand; ozoned smells insinuate; cliff edge gulls squawk and swoop in sharp sunshine: summer’s afternoon soundtrack. My head on your lap: your hand on my hair; eyes shut, ears open.

Insistent beeps. Repeat; insistent beeps. Eyes open to darkness. Auto hand stretches to alarm. I reach for you, for the memory of you, lost in fugged sleep.

The visit

174 characters including spaces. My challenge to me :)

Windowed, your face smiles at me; my face

smiles back. Breathe: in, out, diaphragm

deep. Hand steadied on rail supports

knees. Blindfolded, hand leads

me to sweaty amusement.

Playground nonsense skip with me

Breakfast, lunch, tea and supper

porridge and bacon and eggs and toast

a poverty plague makes me glummer.

Lunch, tea, supper and breakfast

poached eggs with hollandaise sauce

being jobless has me fussed.

Tea, supper, breakfast and lunch

cucumber sandwiches sprinkled with salt

jobless centre pulls no punch.

Supper, breakfast, lunch and tea

fillet of beef with roasted veg

my wagon train ain’t got no gravy.

Next to go in one two three.

Internment

October 1965

With the stillness of an unfed pond the girl stood

amongst sharp grass, brown tumbled earth and

empty rose bushes weighed heavy in graveyard silence.

Outside her world, tombstoned semi-detached

houses horizoned the quiet street.

Cardiganed she took her sister’s hand

walked through colonnaded loganberries

plucked ripeness caught in a starched handkerchief.

Digestive biscuits dunked in her Gran’s tea,

two birds perched on a lace doilyed sofa

faced the empty grate, beaks sealed, eyes seeled.

A doorbell rings; dark suited Mum and Dad

appeared. Voices burbled through the event horizon

of sunshine that broke the grey of her day.