Culm Valley Writers: January 2013

Monday, 28 January 2013

Felix

Eyes brush.

Movement shimmers

across the forehead,

muscles lift, cheeks like apple curves.

Face, a map of mirrors

reflects itself in greeting

cemented by years of tradition.

Hands press - tight and warm.

Inner misery barricaded

beneath a greeting.

The flood of joy, touch, smiles!

Good morning! Shalom! Kalemeira!

Another human being!

Felicitations!

Felix

Felix the ghost cat

howling at the moon

let me sleep you stupid mog

dawn will be here soon

my throat's been rather

sore of late By God! the

thought occurs-suppose it's me!

I'd better go retrieve the boot

I flung, so cat-a-stroph-ic-le

Thursday, 17 January 2013

Supersonic fall– ode to Felix Baumgartner

He approached it like an Arthurian knight,

noble, courageous and slightly out on a limb. A big limb actually

128,000 feet up and no firemen with ladders here.

He looked calm as he ventured on to the edge, balanced himself and then

leapt. Only one more supersonic life left now.

December Hoar Frost

Air ice hangs like wood smoke

burning my lungs.

This is no white moss,

softly blanketing tile and thatch –

a glassy shroud ensnares each seared leaf,

each seed head.

Intricate wrought iron, armed

with spikes and spears

will draw blood, if required.

Our poor designs

falter beneath

Nature’s imposing patterns.

"You have SO much in common!" trilled my hostess

Felix smiled blandly, a momentary crease in his almost tanned, almost plump face. His extended hand was smooth and soft.

A pause. Guarded, appraising eyes swept my face. He sipped his wine as curiosity triumphed over inscrutability.

“What is it then?” he barked: “Morris Dancing, Mudwrestling or the Masonic Lodge?”

FELIX BAUMGARTNER

Oh Felix I can see you from on high

Do you think the apocalypse is nigh

Perhaps you intend to break the speed of sound

Such friction in space may well confound

I don’t believe I've tuned in a second too soon

To watch you descend from that white balloon

Atmosphere

I'm

searching for an atmosphere

to tell my poem to

nothing that's too 'sultry'

no 'cut it with a knife

I don’t want one that's smoky

or electric or ice

I'd like a little frisson

something rather nice

a moment of your company

of undivided empathy

a piece of oh-that's good-a-sphere

sounds rather fine to me

Don't look at me like that. All right, I know it was wrong. You don't have to be all snotty about it. Nobody saw, anyway - except you, that is. And you're no pussy paragon. What you did with that mouse - ugh! Poor little blighter. So don't look at me like that.

Out of wedlock

At the font, the priest spluttered,

“You can’t name this child

after a cartoon character.”

(Didn’t he know there were

five Popes and seventeen saints who bore the name –

or Felix of Cornwall,

who communicated with all feline creatures?)

I elaborated, demurely.

“His middle name is Culpus –

for Fortunate Fall.”

Pages

Monday, 28 January 2013

Thursday, 17 January 2013