Poetry…

Bathing in Thomas Lawrenson’s Kitchen Sink

 

Here’s to bygone times when Snapchat and Instagram

were just a twinkle in the app developer’s eye. And to us,

the perfect models without the incessant need to pose and pout .

As babies and toddlers, we sat in tepid water with

gummy grins; surrounded by Johnson’s Baby Bath bubbles.

Our ever-expanding family tree – brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces;

photo albums full of Truprint coloured snaps . Seventeen grandchildren

all-in-all with the demonic red-eye from the camera’s auto-flash.

 

 

Christmas, 1985

 

Artex adorns our living room walls

in different shades of cream and beige.

Garlands of green, gold and red  hang

high across the ceiling. Gaudy baubles

dangle down  from artificial branches,

mingled with the tinsel on the tree.

 

My chestnut brown  hair cascades

down my back in ringlets, as I sit

cross-legged tearing the wrapping

from my presents – a Saisho Cassette

Player, Star Glo and a Care Bear or two.

This year my Barbie will be dating

Michael Jackson instead of Ken.

 

My dear brothers

open yet

another pair of undies and socks,

containing your excitement in

stifled teenage yawns.  Yearning to go

back to sleep with the half-eaten tins

of cold rice pudding under your beds.

 

 

The Break-Up

 

Her lion’s mane fell like strands of spaghetti

over the laminated Serengeti ,

hurling the hunter gatherer’s utensils –

a javelin piercing his cheating chest.

 

With sweaty paws she swiped the betraying git  –

her dented pride swallowed by the cess-filled pit,

her duelling stance keeping their cub at bay

the plates of fried wildebeest crashing hard.

 

Smacking, snarling lips – unrelenting roaring,

there would be no easy sleeping or snoring –

in the shattered jungle of their beaten hearts

the loved-up watering hole forever dry.