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

re What's going on?

Hello all... for those wondering at my sudden flurry of poetic activity - well let me explain - after incessantly moaning about my lack of writing space in recent months and in view of a fast-approaching portfolio deadline... in a bid to stimulate some writing (any writing), a friend has decided to sponsor me if I write a poem a day for 30 days. The money raised will go to charity re Haiti. Wish me luck. And thanks to all those who support my efforts by reading and/or commenting on these poems (do keep in mind that they are all first pennings, hence WIPs :)

re POEM 4

Accordion man

sat on the south-east side

of Piccadilly Gardens,

under the stern silence

of what were originally

Victorian cotton warehouses, now

obscured slightly by contemporary

glass and steel.

clothed in second-hand pass-me-downs,

and a slim scar, only an onyx ring

on his index finger seems

out of place on this forty-something face,

though might be younger,

if life had not dealt him a bitter hand;

handed him a royal flush

or a full house of cards,

a better hand to play

his gift in a London

orchestra. Instead,

head tilted sideways, he maps a fanciful

world with wiry fingers, as shadows

pass without a thought, journeying

towards perfectly stitched lives.

Catherine Mark

re POEM 3

Trapped moth

moth-powder trail

on glass pane;

a grey smudge

circles naked candle

fleck, then retreats

again. It reappears,

travelling a parallel

circuit with eye-line;

now a sudden cerulean

as if searching for nature’s

sweet sap along cob-

webbed corners of barren

nuptial box.

Catherine Mark