Watched the steeplechase races at Cheltenham
At the haywall a jockey fell off
His horse though continued to ride
And came first – what a great finish that was.
The name of the horse is Fiddlerontheroof
But the victory was awarded to Monkfish,
Who came second, with a jockey on the back.
At my comprehension, Fiddlerontheroof won.
He did the job greatly, with no commands required
He rode freely and gracefully, knowing how to make it
Showed splendidly what a horse ride must be like
Without the torment of whips and this stupid rush.
By noon, the halls throb with static, a low thrum like teeth grinding in sleep. The school, half-submerged in memory, holds its breath. Beneath a cracked skylight, a locker peels open by itself, slow as a yawn. Inside: a paper crown, soaked in ink, and a polaroid of a girl with mirrors for eyes.
In the boiler room, the janitor sketches circles on the concrete with the burnt end of a matchstick. Each loop traps a sound—laughter, crying, chalk squeaks, the metallic gasp of a vending machine dying. He hums again, off-key. The candle’s flame dances, nodding in rhythm.
Outside, the sky bruises. Rain falls sideways, stinging like questions. A new child, coat too big and eyes too sharp, stands at the school’s rusted gate. He doesn’t knock. The gate unlatches itself. The wind pushes him forward.
Inside, the crow watches from the rafters, its feathers slick with ink. It cocks its head, listening. The boy who vanished left his lunch behind—beneath desk 32B, scratched into the wood: “Don’t let it slip who you were before the dreaming.”
The monkfish, now wearing a teacher’s badge, clicks its pen and begins attendance. One name is circled in red.
NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS (from a dutiful husband for his loyal wife)
I’ll promise in the year ahead
To never, ever fart in bed,
Nor say how she should get thinner
At our anniversary dinner
To she who’ll wash my underpants
I’ll whisper words of sweet romance,
Like ‘dear, I smell your fragrant odour’,
NOT ‘how about a quick legover?’
I’ll promise I’ll learn how to cook
From that old Nigella book,
‘Monkfish Bake with Fried Pancetta’
Though egg and chips would taste much better
I’ll book us both a holiday
Somewhere hot for lazy days,
We’ll get suntanned and drink sambuccas,
(Hope no-one sees my huge verrucas)
High as kites on karaoke
We’ll sing a duet, something folky
‘I Got You Babe’? No, ‘cos on balance
Singing’s not among her talents
We’ll watch the sunset hand in hand,
Strolling on the golden sand,
Taking in the sun-kissed view
When suddenly from out the blue
I’ll take a gold ring from my pocket
Go down on one sore knee socket,
And ask her to renew our vows
On holiday, if time allows
You see, I wouldn’t change a thing….
Apart from ask her not to sing!
monkfish needle teeth
on sandy muddy bottoms
from ... beauty to beast
18-04-2018
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
howmanysyllables.com 5-7-5
haiku - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mick Talbot
* 1st place in the contest
windswept windsurfing wallabies warbling whales wailing................................................................................
A pink fish travelling with a tea towel is neither in a rush or dirty. Gridlocked gorillas getting grapes gracefully glide. Seafront mystery in windswept hair carrying a carrot, a jar of mustard, and ten grains of multicoloured rocks. A tambourine on a sponge cake can be beating but not beaten. And a lamb cawl is not a call nor a front crawl so place the gate and door at a sixty degree angle. Many custard cups play hockey with wildebeests in tutus. In a fingerless glove place nine toes, and in a pocket watch place a turning tubular pin. The frost from a llamas horn is neither stagnant or perfumed, it is merely a tidal wave of porridge. Hahaha magniloquent magnolia magnitude making monkfish moussaka. Hahaha equality equals equipment eveningwear xxxxxxx hospitalities Z z Z z Z
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