• Archive of all Poetry Space showcases
Chris Sims
Fruitcake
co-conspirators
we stand on the back step
out of sight
licking spice from our fingers
Even better than your mother’s
Dad says
But don’t let on –
she’ll never forgive me
not a cake at all
sultanas, brown sugar, currants
baked in crisp pastry
(Mum’s speciality)
I’ve pinched her recipe
added cinnamon, apples
and a hefty sprinking of ginger
Just up my street, Dad says
Mum says
You were sent to try me!
her skills lie in the kitchen,
mine in words, in paint
and here I am
beating her at her own game
I can’t blame her
for having a go at me
what would she say
if she knew
Dad’s given me a gold star
for baking?
Moira Andrew
Kit Hill – Cornwall
Do you remember
the tread of Prehistoric Man
who hunted your slopes,
ate your berries,
raised children,
buried their dead?
Do you still hear
screams of dying soldiers
who battled Saxons
Kate Blair
in your foothills
but lost forever
Cornwall’s independence?
Do you recall
the hymns of miners
who burrowed into you
or recollect the pain
of cordite in
your granite bowels?
Or are you
content with change?
Your rain-filled quarry
a lure for dragonflies
beneath towering rocks
on which adders hiss,
while above you
buzzards and kestrels soar,
and Modern Man
explores your trails
on foot or horseback,
oblivious to your past.
Di Coffey
INSPIRE
Chris Sims
For two days
I have been breathing him in.
Cleaning out the bathroom:
shaving gear, medicines,
toothbrush.
Emptying cupboards,
vacuuming neglected carpets,
dusting drawers.
All that was left –
loose hairs, flakes of skin.
Jo Waterworth
Toast
Toby Morgan
Hand sliced wholemeal doorsteps
On a brass toasting fork
Over an open coal fire.
Served with butter
That dripped over hot fingers.
Marriage changed this…
Machine sliced white,
Thin cut
Popped from a toaster,
Served with margarine
That disappeared
Into a serviette.
Worse was to come…
The salesman that sold
The wife the toaster
Starting calling.
Toast was served,
Crusts removed,
Cut into triangles,
With different toppings:
Lemon Curd, Honey, Marmalade,
Jam, Peanut Butter, Marmite.
“Cordon Bleu.”
The Salesman remarked,
Kissing his finger tips.
“King Louis XV
Would have awarded
This a Blue Ribbon.”
The wife blushed,
“I’ve always been artistic,
My way of saying, thanks.”
Thank God, they took
The toaster with them
When they ran away.
Les Merton
Cardboard City
Chris Sims
Come visit my castle the next time you’re in the city?
Look, see. It’s not like the others, filth and mess.
They don’t fold up papers, conserve for other days
Living for the moment, whereas I think ahead
I’ve even made a window; it opens inwards and out
With that homely touch, I put a frill up.
I’ve got thick mattresses in all the bedrooms,
Lined with today’s newspapers, if you open up the window
With the light of the moon, you can read in bed.
A kitchen, with a basin for the sink
Of course I only use royal china, milk just two days out of date!
When the hard long day is over, of kerbs, park benches
Searching through bins, I get caught up in that evening rush.
I imagine the walls made out of granite, the roof slate
With chimneys keeping each room away from the damp
Gatehouse with its keeper, looking after my estate
So don’t forget, come to the city within a city,
Everything is manmade; you’ll see some amazing sites
You see I use to be an engineer.
By Johanna Boal
A requiem
Chris Sims
The sun
Silently soaked
Sings in the yellow
Haze, these forbidden
Days on my heart that
Hang, tip of the weather
The dazzling weight of wonder
Air as light as a feather
Drifting through the seat
The slats of time sit
Slowly in the breaking
Word that spellbinds
Rain has gone
And in it’s will, wept
To nothing but, these
Rolling clouds gleam
Proud in teams
The green
Gaze of hollow
Stumps see through
Trees look, but do not
Sway, their old
Gold leaves
Bay
The glaze
Of summer, still
Saturated in the blooming
Sun shall not wilt when
It’s house of rays
Built on the horizons song
Cascading the day
Long is the feeling
Washed and winnowing free
Freshly mown and heavy
Sat scuttling plainly
And settled serenely
The past a dream
A requiem.
Alexander Conyers
ETHIOPIA
Chris Sims
see talking slums
silenced tongues
freedom silenced
hope killed
a bling of ghettos
collapsed humanity
mothers weeping ,
under the compression of religion
trees dripping tears
Ethiopia your festering open wounds
you are my anger!
children burn in smoldering canisters of hunger
time opened new wounds of memories of old scars
chained on rocks of ignorance
you need a compass of decency
my poetry is a catalyst fermenting your injustices
into beverages of justice
you are my sadness!
your heartbeat bleached in political fermentation
rhythm galvanized in furnaces of cultural myth
laughter imbibed by the rude stomach of the gun
culture crushing under the weight of globalization
Mbizo Chirasha
LIGHT CONQUERS ALL
Chris Sims
In the game of shadows
The faintest pin drop
The silent whisper
A snorting snore
Is charmed to hope
By
A mirror of truth
Revered by light
And,
Torch of liberty.
In the game of shadows
Light is King
Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah
the blade of the jigsaw
someone squashed the universe
and took its feet away
the box holds the secrets
the secret’s in the box
someone drew the seas
so they were flat
reduced the fishes to thin cardboard
so they could fit inside
the box holds the secrets
the secret’s in the box
the blade of the jigsaw
carefully trimmed the universe
to something more manageable
god is shoe-horned
into a size eight
his toes curled under –
his neck cricked and cracked
the box holds the secrets
the secret’s in the box
someone squashed the universe
and took its breath away
Dave Wood
