Saturday, 5 March 2011

Orchard Laws

Sunday 16th January 2011, A. Palmer

They remind me of old educational
cartoons on molecules,
the kids do,
as they shuffle through the door,
vibrating in one solid group
against the icy morning.

Two or three stragglers float
in merrily behind them;
too busy gassing
to have heard the bell, I imagine.

Once inside where it’s warm, they disperse
and one wave goes to Physics,
another to Psychology.
There’s a puddle in Pottery,
quite the reservoir in P.E., albeit
postponed whilst a pond poaches Lost Property,
and one wayward raindrop
teeters outside the Principal’s office.

He waits for the Principal.
He waits for me.

I begin by likening the school to an apple tree,
and its pupils to unripened fruit.
If they’re lucky, one might fall
into the hand of a passing nobleman
and hitch upon a ride to riches and fame.
The rest will rot upon the orchard floor,
mottled and moulding and food for the maggots.

I end by telling him he’s got potential,
but that potential is nothing but space
only hard work can fill.
He nods in all the wrong places,
so I let him leave, tired of trying-
as tired as my speeches.
He hears that he can go.

As he sheeps out,
I bemoan that I didn’t do more.
That I didn’t do more to inspire him,
or that I don’t any of the kids.

Then I catch myself in my desk mirror,
and the answer is etched upon the glass
like a model exam paper-
who would be inspired?
You’re but an apple upon the orchard floor:
grey and wrinkled and moulding.


Wednesday 26th January 2011, A. Palmer

As I scramble for six-to-nine,
you’re realigning centrally.
Ceding one champagne trestle of hair to rest
upon your own pillow
in the limp billow of your departure,
you set about conquering mine.

Mid-way through your doped advance,
I chance a glimpse of button-breast:
smooth and full, with a nipple now sleepier;
yet it’s still seducing,
reducing the room inside my pressed pants,
teasing a last tilt of my lance.

You look good in a bed sheet nest:
finest white bakes your burnished skin
further. I mess up my tie and start again.
I’m almost there, until,
of sleepy will, your hand nears stirring spring,
and softly circles its flushed crest.

Your dreamy search for carnally,
caudally pleasuring does test
my resolve for leaving you lone to start your
day in a creepier,
sepia light. Should I stop, stay, divest,
and revel in you ventrally?

Like your pace, temptation augments,
relents for me to slip back in
and wait for you to wake and yield free reign,
to quench a thirst to quest
and suggest telling them “it’s a stomach thing” -
I have far more pressing appointments.

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

The Swoon

Tuesday 1st March 2011, A. Palmer

Even your silhouette was beautiful,
cast against a wall painted in your favourite moon.
I watched the ice cubes drip to flutes from full
and swallowed you’d be going soon.

Ignoring the swoon,

I edged in closer so that perfect mix
of security and fear I’d come to adore
teased my senses one final time, their tricks
suggesting you may have said more.

I drew short, before
ignoring the swoon.
See, reality I’m struggling to keep
apart from what I dream it is because somehow
I live another life when I’m asleep:
one where I’m with you years from now,

drawing straws by plough;
I drew short before.
Ignoring the swoon

is what I recall deciding was right
all those moons ago but it was too strong a play.
It’s dropped me dead with too much life tonight,
so I am pleading that you pray

lights take me away
to draw straws by plough-
I drew short before;
don’t ignore the swoon.