Through the Keyhole
by Mimi White
Amazed a tree could grow in the sky,
shoots about to burst,
supple, tender.
Sleep had sealed lost prayers,
sibilant, forgotten words
from childhood.
Then the sound of rain,
galaxies of sound,
scribbled on dark slates,
entered the map
of my brain open
to what has no name,
a crescendo of lost dots,
shadows at the dinner table,
mother in the kitchen,
father on a long, long walk
and the quick tale
of memory squeezing
through the keyhole.
Prodigal
by Mimi White
The eternal route
past the lake
where you learned to swim
as a child
where you fished
with your brothers for hornpout
whose whisker -like barbells
felt like hooks
where you skated
in the deep end
over waters
that swallowed
a car whole
Beyond that world
in the woods
on barren islands
living in other lands
you got lost
inside the small
rooms of your life
Still there is happiness
in not knowing where you are
There is the white porcelain of memory
There is the blue sky
Pigeon’s Comeuppance
by George Chopping
Eventually back on board the boat
to an angry cat and a cold dead fire.
But better that, than an angry fire
and vice versa.
The river’s a ruffled cravatte;
a moderately annoyed pensioner
listening to the shipping forecast
which still makes little sense.
Words of customers wash o’er head
after another day at the fucking cafe.
Froth spat from up off the tops of coffee cups
in cranial canyons it lies like tidal scum
Foam treasured like a chest
washed up; a handbag for the seagulls
to dance around. Tapping, slapping
on the hard, dark sands of Torquay.
Then, the sudden sound of a dishevelled,
feathered pigeon flies up from under the fence
by the bins whilst I dispose of night before’s bottles.
Still stunned, I stand frozen. Un-cradling of my unsettled state:
The pigeon coos, “Ha, ha! I’ve escaped! And you’re still here,
trapped like a coffee bean tumbling towards the grind!”
“Yes, true.” I reply. “And probably not tomorrow, nor certainly today
But pest control will drive-by soon and shoot you down like clay.
So remember that, you foul-beaked
waddle of vermin!”
“Don’t forget to clock back in, wage slave!” Taunts the pigeon
“Good luck in the next race, you feathered bag of lard!” I retort.
On return to duty I put chalk
to black board and although not in my mind
in black and white
the pigeon became somewhat ‘special’
in pie.
Do Not Feed the Pigeons
by George Chopping
Do Not Feed the Pigeons
Based on a true story from 1997, when studying at
Catering College in Torquay, Devon
Back from a sandwich on the seawall
I dropped in at the bakery for dessert —
some sweetness to counteract the lingering
savoury flavour of the salt sea air
(as one does)
Onward ambling up hill to campus
distracted by the stale status of my Chelsea bun
I reluctantly tore strips from it’s sugary coil
and whilst popping one particular piece
of the currant weighty pastry into my mouth
I came across a pigeon
inflated chest; a supervisor’s strut
hopping like a child on the scotch; on and off
the pavement curb, between me, the row of parked cars
and the stream of oncoming traffic
Disappointed by each mouthful of the cake
a charitable gesture ensued, yet a gesture with an underlying
rather murderous motive which triggered
the tearing and throwing of a small piece of bun towards the bird
(that was bobbing about between the bumpers of parked cars).
Sadly, due to the not-so-fresh nature of the cake
the bun bounced
and post the pigeon’s pounce
upon the Chelsea pensioner piece
from behind came
the wheels of a downhill headed van
that rolled straight over
the downhill facing pigeon
I couldn’t look but only gasp in shock
at what
I imagined to be
a sight of splayed feathers and bun.
Back to class to share of my despair
was where the response was not “there, there”
to spare me the guilt of guts spilt
But the feelings were
of upset and disbelief at the malice
that caused me to engage
in such a thoughtless act.
Especially amongst the vegans.