re POEM 11

Sleep apnoea

an irregularity of nature;

an endless mare stealing

sleep, that is before the apparatus

the size of a 1980’s cassette player

became a part of us,

now

humming mask

intrudes on nuptial nook

regulating shallow breathing,

no longer shaking the walls

of cerebral drama,

now

a different visitor -

but where is the choice

between the two? I ponder,

as a strange scent of roasted corn

fills the room, mingles with the dramatics

of machine and man

falling into sleep’s well.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 10

The Brazilian

lithe length

extended in horizontal

position, enveloped by silk

bedspreads;

fired up like a Rocky theme song,

he laughs, twitches a toe

strumming an invinsible steel

-string guitar.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 9

In the Conservatory

Fifty-two boxes goad,

“need unpacking” I mutter

to watching walls - this clutter

collected from five years

living in Birmingham:

books,

photographs,

mementos,

handbags,

shoes...

flashbacks of whirlwind

romances; cranky colleagues;

illness which lasted months - all

crammed away in storage boxes

brown stacked on brown,

reminding me of boxed

sub-world existences:

prisons

boarding schools

nursing homes

psych wards

like yolk within albumen

I am unable to begin to unpack

the memories,

for whatever reason I want

them to stay in the yellow.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 8

Small talk

is what fills the rooms

these days

punctuated, forced;

hours spent keeping up

appearances of fatigued

dreams stretched

across too many years.

We have become a card-

board cut-out of an original

ideal. The traffic light

no longer green, but

a pulsating amber.

Between the bowl

of milk-soaked muesli,

the baby monitor goes off.

Looking up our gazes meet,

hang in mid-air and I rise

to attend to the bundle

gurgling in the only room

that makes sense.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 7

... feeling physically, emotionally and mentally fatigued today... it's been an ugly stressful week at work... anyway, I still managed a poem today, trying to maintain my momentum :)

Windmill

Blood drips

off knife edge

with clarity

in sleep’s windmill,

a screen of smoke apparent,

smokescreen

or revelation of what?

silent red

weeps;

longings

lost in hours

given to sorting out

recycling bins, de-cluttering

cupboards, washing out stains

on beddings, ironing out

wrinkles in waning relationship

circumcised between crisp linen.

If only dripped blood

did not stain sheets,

if only I could google

our memory map

to find the point of schism.

It is as if the bloodied drops

have accumulated to form

a pool the span of this windmill.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 6

B&B

In Aberdeen

or a coastal Welsh town,

I imagine it to be a sanctuary

for the weary and wanderlust

traveller –

where after organic Full English

the eating area will function

as a literary lighthouse

where transients saunter

in to muse over Larkin or Muldoon,

perhaps linger (a cuppa in hand) with Coetzee

or Murakami;

while a subtle chime

sounds above doorway, making

way for footfall rhyme; a stream

of cold-blushed clientele

wrapped in fleece

and wool.

In the late evening: among

sagging book-shelves, a local

poet weaves simile and metaphors

in poetic effervescence; pattering like

soothing summer rain

until an Open Mic session evolves,

evolving to create a world

within itself, as I have

done in the wilds of a Welsh

or Gaelic landscape.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 5

Drip

(a coffee house among many)

Yin-yang haven

hidden among industrial scars

of dearth and dirt…

Inside: inviting sleek-chic graffiti-style

artwork greets; the aroma

of fresh coffee, herbal teas

and home-made cakes tempt

an assorted collection of people:

stout Greek-looking woman

with a Maria Callas headscarf;

two lanky lads engrossed

in a game of solitaire; a brown

lady with a short afro laughing

at full volume with her awkward friend.

Unassuming music ripples

in the background, temporarily

washing away the crystal truth

lodged in my mind;

‘It is over.’

Catherine Mark