among the red terraced homes backyards and gardens. When will summer arrive? A distinct lack of heat from lit barbecues, an obvious sobriety of young men in t-shirt and shorts hope this muggy cold will turn out a warm ‘un when cocky whippersnipes tanked up on crushed supped can clatter and empty bottle crash make scenes in front of prosecco sossled wives unaware their bra strap and knickers show through mistepped tumble, legs in air laughter.
Month: May 2017
The BeZine, May 2017, Honesty & Transparency, The Post-truth (Post-factual Politics) Era
Post Factual Poem | Paul Brookes
Source: Post Factual Poem | Paul Brookes
Unpalatable Truths | Paul Brookes
Kept Promises | Paul Brookes
Kept Promises and two others kindly published by Jamie and Michael in The Bezine
Source: Kept Promises | Paul Brookes
Hospitality
.warm welcome over the threshold. a beverage. a cake or biscuit. stoked heat. comfortable chair. best in home. hand shake. white teeth.
.stories. laughter. wine or beer. More laughter. Good health is an hello.
The Final
demand from skin and bone. Final payment breath to pay the debt when debt collector knocks for admittance is only temporary as you will return. No form of you is lost. Your energy will embolden others. Your memory will inspire others. Though you believe yourself worthless your worth rests with others that keep your story alive.
“Cleaner” kindly published by Jason in Literati Magazine
“Cleaner” kindly published by Jason in Literati Magazine
His Maze
in every footfall he makes shows a different person who lives in his shoe, stiletto crack on pavement, clog echo on cobble, foam slap of toe post, reflections in black leather brogues a telescope snoop into other’s private areas, wellington boots under a puddle two stones watch water flow either side that house where motorway traffic diverts make it an island. Every shoe is an island.
Her Pink
lilies remind me of a woman’s body I tell her, she looks offended, “One track mind, tut, tut, ” she says and laughs. I apologise, and she tips me a wink. “You know they’re poisonous?” I nod. “You’ve got some lily dust on your trousers. Come here.” And she bends down to dust his upper thigh. “Can’t take you anywhere.” When she rises her warm body in her thin spring dress with its massive pink lip motif presses against him, he inhales her new perfume and fragrant hair and knows it will linger the rest of the day. “Wine?” She proffers.
The Wombwell Rainbow 