Regret

Terger - the other racehorse;
He didn't win.
10-1 odds
Not even a place
His brother, though,
Another matter:
Made history
Then disappeared.
Bred in the same stables - 
Had to be separated.
One kicked,
The other spat
Who named who?
Who had the last laugh?
Me or you?

© Isabel Hare
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Photograph

Pose, click, inspect, click, swish
Time and image changed
Pose, pose, wait, smile too long
Now those smiles are so practised and so fleeting
Is that what I look like?
This thought can be deleted.
We all know what we look like, in these now fleeting moments of self-reflection.

© Isabel Hare
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Don't Do That!

Don't do that, do this
I can't think why you did that,
Don't do it.
If I were you, I'd do it like this.

Don't tell me what to do
You don't know 
What I think, what I feel and know
You're not me, nor I you.
Would you like it if I went inside your head
And danced there, trampling down your treasures,
Knocking back your cobwebs?

Isabel Hare
© All rights reserved 

SUBURBIA

Just in from work, still going on the 'phone.

Two young-ish daughters, always hungry, whine and moan.

He parks the car, uptight to kitchen sills;

Comes in to kiss us all and open bills.

Sub- village life's the same as in the 'burbs:

We work and live and love in equal thirds.

© Isabel Hare
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WHERE WERE YOU?

Where were you when you started to think
About Freedom and Brotherly Love?
About which is mightier, pen or gun,
In a suburban neighbourhood?

Where were you when you felt the divide,
When horror felt too near?
When political expression was polarised
Between penmanship and fear?

© Isabel Hare
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Breaking up the Union

The breaking up of The Union – a near miss.
So tensely debated, talked about and
Twisted. All those mothers, strong women
And school kids, maybe they saw Mr. Salmond
as some misogynist.
All the Yes vote is followed, make his story
Now the whole debate seems little more than that,
Just History.

© Isabel Hare
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To the Lighthouse

Hornet homes must be too dark,
Too crowded, difficult to park,
Too many close-up. Wing-tip rips,
Not any room to stand apart.

A human home, an upstairs room
Tempts hornets to the windowsill
They queue up, hoping for remorse
From human, gently buzzing hearts.

© Isabel Hare
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Trust me

'Trust me' said the Butcher,

As he sharpened his best knife.

‘This’ll only hurt a whisker,

And you'll thank me all your life.'

We hid behind the chitterlings,

Looking on with fear and dread,

Barely hiding our own jitterings,

As the butcher laid him dead.

© Isabel Hare

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Train Windows

When I stick my head out of the moving window, the dark lets me in, rushing past my head, brushing all my hair right back, smoothing all of me. There is no other way I know of feeling so alive and thrilled so quickly. Head in : normal, machine-world, head out : wild, dark-eyed world.  Heading into stations, the train-chug, minimal train-chew carries me as though I'm young and on my father's shoulders. We swing into the suburbs, Christmas-like lights of red and white lining the way. City smells begin to envelope and we swing about, not steady enough, held by the door. You can't help imagining what would happen if the door swung open, you finger the handle, so close and possible. Unless you look carefully, you could brush your head, or worse, much worse, against the tall poles that parabola towards you. The rails start to slice sound, metallic and smooth, giant dress-making shears. We switch tracks, heading directly into solid walls, veering away at the last minute. All the time, the air is flowing straight through your head. This awakens everything, all thoughts pop open, you are keen-eyed.  Thankful that your lower half is anchored in the warm, electrically-lighted, carpeted, inside world, that you really live in. You swing into the station, swerving to the other tracks. You glide, elegantly and high pitched, up to the stationary platform, your hand reaching for the outer handle, with the window pulled down as far as it can and up to the full length of your arm.  You can right- angle the unwieldy chunk of handle, a smooth, rounded utility handle, still working after decades of hands.

© Isabel Hare
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A Children's Story

'Once upon a time', so the stories go

'A princess lived unhappily': the tale begins with woe.

A prince, the youngest usually, sets out to see what's what.

Chaos comes and darkens life;  so much to fear and slay.

Enlightenment will follow, for the prince will save the day;

He'll also save the princess, and love her quite a lot.

'Happy ever after', so the stories go...

© Isabel Hare
All rights reserved

The Rivers God/Authority and Jeremy Fisher

Of the 64 flood warnings, issued tonight, Jeremy,
17 of them are severe.

The buttercups by your door will go and the
deep waters become unclear.

What will become of the minnows, then, Sir?
The deep-swimming trout and the pike?

I cannot abide to serve dinner, Sir
That the Alderman and Sir Newton dislike.

© Isabel Hare
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Green

Concrete rivers, strident lighting, rusting

Metal, rotting timbers on sodden chipboard.

Half-forgotten people, long ignored

Neglected wastelands, not dead but sleeping.

Except at edges, under hedges, creeping grasses

Straggling, growing, tender grasses, Hopeful

Greenness: glowing, glistening, a grassy whirlpool

Un-noticed so far, save by gypsy-led horses.

© Isabel Hare
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Harrogate

First trials of NeverMow© are progressing well. The 'grass positively glows with chlorophyll that is not there. Previously impractical dresses swish cleanly over it and no hazardous evening dew theatens shiny-shoed progress. A fuller trial is planned for York, incorporating dog-mess training. Motto: "Clean and green sets the scene

© Isabel Hare
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Whilst we grew up

Whilst we grew up, our parents ached,
Endured our adolescence,
Mutely watching our mistakes.
Then when we finally flew the nest
With not a backward glance
Life began again for them;
They quickly took their second chance.

With us all gone, our rooms re-painted
Junk re-assigned, some boxed and dated,
They then began to spread their wings,
Ruffle feathers, collect more things..
Things they didn't strictly need
But really felt compelled to own.
A huge job lot of garden seed,
A little flat in a foreign town.

New ownership brought guilty pleasure,
Mental riches they could not measure.
My parents soon were hard to find,
Their foreign trips quite clandestine
We felt we knew, then, how to ache
As they'd done, when we,d had our cake
And eaten it, no second thought had we,
We'd done it all so trivially.

© Isabel Hare
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A Modest Proposal

I'm a shy, retiring type, deploring all but subtle
artifice. I'd like to live a simple life, give up the
Palaces and strife.
A modest, undemanding wife.

So here it is, my birthday test: to live just like a shepherdess
I'm going to give my all to sheep;
I've heard they mostly eat and sleep.

© Isabel Hare 
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