I'm more of a writer of social comment, but I am willing to have a go for the Company : 'Gong Anima and Lunk'; though Lunk writes it, 'Lunk, Anima and Gong.'
"Lace the words together like lacing up your boots," says Anima, trying to be helpful, lovely woman as she is.
"It's a cross between the triple jump and blending for a smoothie," utters The Enigma, Lunk.
"And don't rhyme!" they chorus.
"Ah... but don't stop a rhyme coming if it really wants to," adds Lunk.
He should stop reading Winnie The Pooh. The whole thing sounds like a minefield.
"Just don't expect me to 'him' and 'her' every noun that moves. This is English not French, you know!" I call back, bracing myself for dispersal.
.........................................
As I exit the back door
into actinic glare,
pigeon wings clatter and blur,
lifting shed height. One alights,
roof apex, peering back at me.
"No. You go on. You're fine."
As if I would be chasing through the air.
No Peter Pan, me," I explain.
Drenched as soon as sit
beneath a blue as deep,
puffed clouds as white
as spring; but sun's tyrannical
until cloud-parasolled.
A feeble breeze is little help at all.
That pigeon's back,
sits on an old, galvanized mop-bucket,
clanks the handle with its gripping claws.
Clanking pigeons!
Give them chains to rattle at,
little banshee whistles to blow.
They'll be at the table with me
they get any tamer.
These basking days
one sits in the oven,
though cakes don't drink coffee,
munch a plucked sour apple;
and watch butterflies threading
through tall grasses,
along the precipice of hedge,
prettily plying calm.
...
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
