A Palette of Poetry

A rainbow of words. A montage of multi-chromatic— you get the idea.

My inner Priscilla atop the island of Tenerife. (a.k.a. ‘a cock with a flag on a rock’)

Hello there.

Can someone please confirm spring has sprung in Britain? It’s been a very dull and wet winter. The rainclouds needs to disappear to prevent this island dissolving like a soluble aspirin.

When deep inside a work-in-progress, random snippets of new poetry often invade my head. Some turn into nagging earworms and refuse to depart until I’ve given them the attention they think they deserve.

Some might grow into fully-fledged poems and be read out at a monthly session of the wonderful Winchester Muse poetry group. But many are left to mulch in a dim, neglected corner of my e-filing cupboard, especially since I allotted more time to snaring a literary agent – tricksy beasts at the best of times.

This week’s newsletter exposes three such examples to the harsh light of Substack day. I hope you enjoy them (and do feel free to browse more of my poetry).

As always, likes and comments are very welcome.

JR

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A cat named Betty. She’d have got on with fellow feline Bob.

The Waiting Room

Inspired by the nag-bag who seeks me out whenever I dare to leave my study.

My cat and I have shared our turns 
in life’s communal waiting room.
There’s no allotment of time, 
no prescribed maximum (or minimum), but
—as I stroke her head and she licks my hand—
we agree she’ll be the first
to breathe a last sigh.

I must ignore a guilty re-accounting of 
size-matched mammalian heartbeats.
Even indentured servants to this louche predator,
with lids half-open, dreaming paws a-quiver,
have more years than her.

Is she thinking her life is less lived?
Perhaps she sees time differently, 
her minutes matched to my hours,
her dreams epic tales of scented hunts,
not my sour, soon forgotten, fragments.

I brush her from nose to tail as 
she offers purred reassurances that,
no matter our respective spans, 
we’ll end up just the same:
forgiven, forgotten, floating.
Our lives dissolved,
like aspirin for the pain.

---

Wind him up and let those choppers go.

Non-Stop Chatter Box

Inspired by a lonely chatterbox who held court from a local barstool.

Had the chatter really died when he tumbled to the floor?

Was the deathly silence real when carted out the door?

The fleeting celebration
of his terminal attrition
was concluded per tradition
with a furnace's ignition.

Consuming every part,
less his stubborn dentition,
they remain a fitting tribute
to his garrulous condition.

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An Orbital Mind Mend

Inspired by my current speculative work-in-progress. This happens less than it should!

Eye-caught mix: hi-grav muscle, low-grav grace.
Derms carved with picts from their elder race.

Southern Ocean flows in their blood, not their food.
Looks up from fakepaste, eyes still mean mood.

I wait for first words, smile on tight beam.
Phosphoscene glittering as they scan for real-feel.

Exam over and tokens sent, they beckon:
"Sis, sit beside. We can do this mend." 

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That’s all for this week! Thank you for reading ReidItWrite.