Mr Charon (9 Short English Poems)

1. A Potion to Perk up your Cat Two co-ordinates of brimstone A pinch of bum fluff Bromide of batswallop (one tspoon) Some magnocartesian of balsam A liberal sprinkling of nightjar pickles A shake of powdered feather quills A smidgeon of linctus of Sodom A grinding of barn owls' toenails A soupçon of badger poo essence 2.The Honeymooners Blackpool was my parents' choice for honeymoon After a long engagement, strictly observed My mother's moral compass…N for No A photo shows them striding out together Father, forceful and handsome Mother's perm tucked into her rain mate A recently deflowered flower The Tower looms over them, That monster of Freudian shadows My brother was conceived here, A stick of human rock stamped ‘Made in Blackpool' 2. Three Swans Drinking Three swans drink from a puddle Unperturbed by crocodiles of tourists The swans are wearing grey galoshes Black eye-masks dovetail into their orange beaks Starred with yellow leaves the puddle's a window Onto the jet glaze of the tarmac road Swan-bills snap-lap the water, left to right Their necks contorting like a tuba's plumbing Their midnight eyes each hold a spark of fire 3. Mr Charon's Cargo The hammers of the heart Continue to thump out the old one-two Although veins thicken, cells dissolve Silk stockings, chiffon days Give way to granny shoes and thermal vests Ravens croak in the honeysuckle Bulletins warn of cracks and unsafe architecture I have become a patch up job The sour mouth of Winter spits into the wind Something familiar, warty, whiskery Is mumbling in the queue Is biting into a doll Is unpicking its stitches and stuffing Mr Charon, the pier is need Of a clean sweep 4.Hans Christian Anderson Hans Christian Anderson was born in a slum With his eyes half-shut he walked He was thin as a reed with a concave chest Like a monkey-man he hopped. Dickens modelled Uriah Heap On Anderson (always whingin) An poor old Hans paid sex workers To talk to him, a virgin He'd a fear of open spaces And of being buried alive He stuffed his chest with newspapers And wrote stories to survive 5.Isaac Newton Sir Isaac Newton was said to have an obsessive love of red Crimson settee Crimson cushions Crimson drapes Crimson curtains Crimson chairs Crimson bed Crimson walls Seeing red? 6.Delicacies Aristotle dined upon camel meat Fried pregnant cicadas he loved to eat Pliny the Elder, historian Ate hare-balls laced with the blood of men Howard Hughes sucked chocolate bars As he pointed his toenails up to the stars But models must supper on air slipped in With a lettuce leaf, to keep them thin 7.Aberdeen 2014 No crocodiles lumber along our river banks Nobody here walks barefoot, head erect Bearing a basket of yams beneath dark skies The sea is a train that always runs on time In winter, its carriages are cooler Extinct wolves cannot blow the houses down Not even the urban fox has got that puff Forget lush palms, the smell of frangipani Lampposts bloom like snowdrops through the haar Exotic saris are buried by mountains coats Gold sandals set aside for faux-fur boots Goliath of shipping, oil tankers, glut the harbour Blond, blue-eyed Euro-citizens chatter in Slav Ours is a Spartan town, ancient in seats of learning Its virtue is endurance across time 8.When I am travelling on a train When I am travelling on a train Then lists of words come skipping Like minxes, sphinxes, lynx and jynx And others, gaily tripping A daisy chain of verbiage Words rumble out with ease Like buttermilk and billygoat The poetry disease! 9.The Poetry Lesson ‘5 minutes to chat to a friend' I told them. ‘The theme today is reflection. On someone with whom you've had a close connection.' A black eyed boy with Byronic hair Told of a runaway wheelchair. We had to laugh! Another, spoke of Husky pups in Alaska. Teenage banter flew like harvest chaff So it went on at a tangent until A tentative hand rose up, Apologetically. ‘It's a bit deep really When my friend was two, her father left She's never seen him since. She pretends he's there, all the time Even a made-up father's better than none.' The thin sun struggled to warm the chilly room ‘Is that what you mean, Miss, by the word reflection? ' I had opened a running sore with a single word How deep and aching the cut of such rejection.