We never had a problem telling when
George-Albert was not in a happy mood.
It wasn’t just the sound of slamming doors
Nor yet the sound of shuffling, slippered feet.
Nobody told us when we bought the place
About the resident that we’d find there.
Tobacco smells inhabited the space
And told us how to find where he had been.
The fact that he was there before we were
Had given him the right to stay, it seems.
When things got bad, the wife would tell him off,
The smells would fade; and was there just a sigh?
The time had come when we had to move on
And leave the harmless resident behind.
I only hoped that, when he’d found we&
She always walked the cliff path. The views were good in the daytime and at night she could watch the shimmering lights of the fishing boats just off shore. The lights reminded her of her brother whom she obviously hadn’t seen since that fatal accident exactly a year ago, but there he stood in his oilskins with his arms extended. As you might guess, at the sight of him, she stopped. He immediately vanished but, if she hadn’t stopped, she would not have survived the fall down the cleft across the path caused by the newly fallen chalk.
OK, best I can do for CoreMembers (https://www.deviantart.com/coremembers) competition to make others feel good. I loved this when Scouse Bob stood up and, without warning, said, “D’y’ hear about the dyslexic Yorkshireman who went to work with a cat-flap on ‘is ‘ed?” He then simply left the pub, leaving his question on the air. That’s what I call timing.
Probably one for the Brits but, after a few seconds thought, I thought it was funny.
101 - 100 USES OF A RED SKATEBOARD
The conversation had been going on for some time but here’s how it ended:
“Bet you he couldn’t.”
“Bet he could.”
“He’s always there early on Saturdays. Before anyone else is around. Then he uses the damned thing on his paper round.”
“Have you got everything you’ll need?”
“Oh yes! That kid’s going nowhere.”
“Sez you. Right. See you then.”
“Don’t forget: a fiver we said.”
“I won’t forget but I
I am the lost and final hanging man,
That love worn card you deal beneath the root.
You place me on a dark and looming land
With a gilded noose slipped around my foot.
Silver coins tossed, betrayed against the sand,
A final kiss that finds its way to roost.
And you shall eat and swallow all my sins
And spin the earth where simple men begin.
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the last remaining nail
holding our hot-orange
saucer full of sun
is about to let go
and, as the drywall cracks,
i’m back to boyhood
and my grandfather
sits across the breakfast table,
train noises trailing
from the corner of his mouth;
he looks past me
tracking something, left to right
in the window behind me
oh, it's the little train, runs 'long the sill'
i turn around and i’ve missed it
and soon as i return to my plate
wait.. (a distant) woowoo fades right
how i wish i still wanted
to turn around
and look a second time
that table’s now likely lonely
in landfill quiet,
the window sold