Mrs May’s Mould

P1080747

 

Mrs May’s Mould

What lies beneath… the Ungodly Jam
Of Mrs May’s Brexit plan?
Once scraped, it’s good as new
The Raspberry’s saved!
The Toast goes free, (drum roll)
At last we gain back Border Control

Whilst she nibbles at the edges
We have our carrots, peas or aubergines
For Brussels gives us all our veggies
When the Pot is empty, what will we have?
Seasonal Caulis grown in manure?

No Charities but loads of Poor?
No Welfare State?
No Industry?
But wait! –

Maybe we can eat the Mould
That Mrs May leaves on her Plate
Edging closer, as she cogitates
Another Food Bank Universal Credit scam.

Veronica Aldous all right reserved 2019, please share

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The War Photographer’s Son

 

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The War Photographer’s Son

The moon’s a trigger
his torso mapped with scars
perimeters, and the stars
are for hunting by
in strange scimitar regions
his camera flies
while my mother curls
me on her lap
and cries

there is always Reuters
to rely on and the papers
we have the old shrapnel
shards from netted stitches
trophies of an alien zone
maybe a return
camouflaged with laurels
my mother drops
the phone

the moon’s a shutter
its eye upon the dying boy
I feel for him/feel nothing
there is a part of me
that stalks the moonlit jungle
in big dusty boots
a nightmare up and running
my father
loads the film and
shoots.

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 1984

This is an old poem of mine , published many years ago.

A Vulgar Boatman

little rabbit girl
A Vulgar Boatman

When I lay in a fox’s sleep by the wall, as they say
But I was one eye open and my legs itched for sprinting

You bedded down and gave me bees’ kisses, and much more
Some of which I was not wanting, and some of which I was –

You could never tell which bit was good, and which poor
“That is the way of lovemaking, it is not an art” , he said

(Certainly not, I thought, spitting your pretty blond hair into the brambles
and having no hankie either)

My buttons annoyed me after that, felt itchy and the pocket stained
With a lack of respect for my only being seventeen

It was my mother’s dress, so I felt put out that you dirtied it
Like Old Shuck had pissed upon me good and proper

I had to dye it purple such was my shame, I took to dyeing everything
With clots of elderberries which stank like stoat’s spoor

Cloppiting about like a shire horse after a nosebag!
Love is a series of cakes made with missing ingredients

You were one I made with no flour.

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2019

The Little Ghost of Whichways

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The Little Foxgirl of Whichways

Being ‘here’ is very mystifying and sometimes little spirits whisper me stories of their tiny, unimportant, shimmering and brief lives…

When I was young and my shoon wore down
from traipsing up and down the shackled path
I had songs stuck in me head, tacked up
each step was a word, a stitch, a mark
I didna know that I was strange, I didna know
what people did, or why, or where they went
the cold sky was blue and twigs bore green
the blackbird sang in silvery coils
and the snow made flowers of my breath

mither moth bore me away in Spring
and now I lie amidst the drying grass
am stoaten bones, am husks.

 

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2019

Collage and painting- Veronica, The Quick Blue Fox in the Graveyard

The old garden

photo

The old garden. Soon to be lost. I have loved you for many a year. This land was once orchards as it is on the side of a valley. There are apple tree ghosts and those of a thousand thousand birds. There are yew trees and others. Slow worms, harvest mice and once there were bats, all inhabited its wide embrace. I have seen many wonders by slow patient gazing. Redwings drunk on rotting apples, tiny shifts of energy amongst small plants. Miniature strawberries and furry leafed herbs to melt into and observe. A nest of baby foxes with blue eyes, a hedgehog with a cough who had to be rescued. A blackcap in the yews, a family of tiny goldcrests amongst bright sunlit berries. A yew tree is like a Christmas tree when it snows and the sun catches the birds and the berries. In the summer, my Mother’s gift of pink old roses would perfume the air. Madame Isaac Pereire and Gertrude Jekyll. Names that are remembered, names that are forgot. I used your leaves to print and dye silk so I have you always in my sewing box scenting the tapestry of my life. By one who loved an old garden and had her heart broken. © Veronica Aldous 2019

Literary Reminders

 

 

saties bird 1.jpgLiterary Reminders

You are already loved, by the blue hour
By the cold road when you wept

Into his coat sleeve
Snowflakes all round
With the shops mockingly colourful

Tess walked on in the unweeded garden
Cracking snail shells which foretold  her demise
Angel Clare such a useless article, with a harp

Of all things.

She took to her bed with a man

She didn’t know and that was

A rum story.

I caught a cold from a French film

Wrote my own subtitles
The cat in the car park understood
Why I had taken up smoking again.

Home is sometimes exactly

Between the light on a hoarding
And the Imperial Dragon Chinese Takeaway.

You were there all along, Monsieur
Sweet and true
Anything is possible

But usually it is the simplest solution
Which is also the most beautiful.

 

All Rights Reserved Veronica Aldous 2019

The painting is also by Veronica and is called ‘Satie’s Bird’ It is available on Etsy for £350, please contact me if you are interested in purchase

 

 

 

The Inevitable Rhythm

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The Inevitable Rhythm

Moon said to walk out over the jetty, Ronka
But the ache in the head and the natterjacks
Said hold on for August’s bitterns
They can comfort with their foghorn whoops
Moon said that she will take my dolls
For ahead is the inevitable clock of the windmill
The sails thwack about and it’s very near lovecries,
Moon said growfuckingup- so I did

It hurt like being birthed in washing soda
And gin.

When I went down Pennington Lane
I heard the nightjars and got a bat
Stuck in my hair, so tangled
It’s still hanging there forty years later
Wrinkled and flaccid, cheeping for fruit,
Moon’s a white rabbity little trickster
I wish I had pushed her so she fell off the swing.

 

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2019