Open Reach girl 20.07.2011.

Tall, quiet, assured,

you came right to

the address,

no messing.

Unassuming you were,

though people,

I assume,

assumed.



You read my notice;

'Bell not working-

knock loudly. Thankyou.'



You knocked loudly.

As I opened up, you

stood before me-

all there in navy blue and

high viz, a paramedic

of the wires;

apologised for

knocking loudly,

took down my details,

assured me that

there would be a line.

Smiled a mile-wide

smile.



At the olive green

junction box, you rearranged

combinations, threw switches,

did not flinch,

separated wires,

bundled the twisted

red and yellow pairs.

Worked alone.

Phoned home.



Reaching the van

you pulled down the ladder,

threw up the climbing gear,

made your way up the gaffs,

got down to it,

gathered up the loops

on the dead-end pole,

hard-hatted and braced

for anything,

spidered up there.



You hugged the pole, peered

at the wire web,

pulled on mechanic's

white gloves,

reached the supply space,

cradled the box,

opened it.



Intent on the problem

you knew you could solve,

you worked it out,

stared it out,

embraced it as

the unforgiving sun glanced

off your linesman's hard hat,

faded your vest,

glinted on your tool pouch,

heated the creosote,

shone fiercely.



I revelled in your

level-headedness.

The way you,

sure-footed

and booted,

outshone others without

meaning to,

climbed poles

whether greasy or not,

gripped the gaffs,

twisted the wires,

inspired-

accidentally.



Afterwards, you shouldered

the ladders, slotted them

back on the van roof,

thanked me for nothing,

three-point-turned neatly;

left, no sweat.

Your Mother's Daughter 12.08.2011.

Your black Kompressor Estate
swirled into the car park,
scudded gravel that spat out
from beneath tyres.
You sprang out of a beaded seat,
clipped the door shut,
hived off any nonsense,
made the point.

The wisp of split-blonde
shoulder-length hair
echoed your passenger's
grey, shoulder-cut hair,
yet you were altogether different.
You pulled forward a black cardigan,
smoothed it down
over troubles.

Sliding round to the car boot
(whose bumper sticker
announced a common
passion for Dobermanns)
you made it fly open;
made another point.

Finally, you rounded the
flank of the black car,
yanked open the
stubborn passenger door
(since your youthfulness seemed eternal)
prised out your wavering,
bewilderd mother, handcuffed her
to your arm, marched her
slowly after a minute of her arising
(which seemed to you an eternity)
willed her along the flagstones
like a category A prisoner.

Sighing below herself
your mother went along with it,
wishing for some kind of reaccord,
forgiveness always on her lovely lips.
You jabbered at her, gabbled out the words,
disquieted, not liking how you were,
you wished away the minutes,
the hours, the ties
that screamed the quiet truth
(even in your Singapore home)
that you were still
your mother's daughter.

From behind, you were two persons
connected by some length
of life that tarried behind you,
seethed around you.
From behind, you were still
your mother's daughter
and she was still
your mother.

More IMF chief haiku x 2 21.05.2011.

Source The Guardian.

The President of the IMF, arguably the world's leading banker has been had up for raping a chambermaid at a New York Sofotel. Dominique Strauss Kahn, who until now has been grooming himself for the Presidency of France, could be sent to Riker's Island to do time along with other categories of hardknock.


Chief banker tells world's

poor to tighten belts

while loosening his.



IMF rapist

may go down after making

girl go down on him.



Banker turns bonker,

does time after doing crime

with other hardknocks.

In a doctor's waiting room 20.05.2011

The patients face each other

as if downstairs on a

double-decker bus


In this waiting room

there's some connection

that strings them together

unwillingly;

that reaches across discretion

unhappily;



In this place,

muteness  alone

speaks.


In this place, the posters

talk to us, read us their

stories, ask us questions.

'Meningitis and Septicaemia-the signs'.

'Health MOT. Are you due?'

'Back Ache? Frozen Shoulder?

Joints and Points now have three clinics

on the Wirral'.

'If you had blurred vision

and a sore throat, would you know

what to do?'

'Breast Milk.It's amazing'

On one poster, the joyful figure

of £1,000 has been reached in felt-tip

for the Kenya Camp.


In this place, there is not a single murmur,

though the statuesque wait on with

their small protests; a cough here,

a shuffle there, a vacant stare,

the flipping of a mobile,

a rearrangement of clothing.

A man in workboots grunts

as he rises to the siren call,

heads for the red crisis LED lights.


In this place,

muteness alone

screams the truth.

A parent-teacher meeting 13.01.2011

A parent-teacher meeting. 13.01.2011.



At six, the dark envelope

of a fleeing blackbird

folds itself down at the foot

of a beech hedge.

My bike wheels ticker

in the dusk-ink blue.



I pass the celebratory school room,

lit-up, as though

all its occupants were

tucking into something.



Around the computer desks,

shifting under the dark

bulk of parents,

shorn-headed boys

have been scrambled

for the night.



They sit small,

still wearing grey,

scrunch their fists

under the tables.



Their cheeks colour over

what has been glossed over,

what has come crashing

around their bright red ears.



Elephants tired of being

in the room have left,

have squeezed through

classroom doors,

have left them swinging.

'Too late to say it now'

thinks one lad.

Too late for the bright moment.



The bulky parents,

those who have finally

been drained of questions,

drained of care,

are loathe to leave.

Instead, at Nine,

the teachers rise

to leave them.