Knowing I’m on the street

New stalking offences come into force

The Guardian, 26 November 2012

Tonight on the street where you live

I’m committing a crime

standing in this shadowy doorway

patiently watching first light creep down

the concrete tiles of your parents' semi.

This isn't the first time I've waited here

among the empty beer bottles

for first signs of your coming out,

the peachy backlight from your window,

a fleeting shadow mime over the blind

as you bend to straighten the sheets

or pull on a pair of tights,

your frosted image through the front door

as you pull through the morning paper

and reveal what colour you'll be wearing today

beneath your familiar blue raincoat

when you take your seat near the front

of the hourly bus into town

expecting to alight at your usual stop

and hoping today will be the day

something special happens in your life.

(c) 2012 Slush Poet

Democracy on the streets

Britain votes for first ever police commissioners

The Straits Times, 15 November 2012

An invitation to a polling booth

colour coded, red blue yellow green,

a little grey but mostly party boys

looking for yet another stage

to posture on. Why trust them,

these politicos, more than we did

the bureaucrats who were there before?

Will their power to back or sack

a police supremo protect the weak,

the feeble, the poor — or even the rich?

We’d all be safer on the grace

of nosy neighbours and journalists.

Surprised to see a queue at all

let alone a snaking one, I take my place.

The line slithers round the corner

and in the next street I find the queue

is not for the election after all,

but to loot a haemorrhaging

liquor store. I wade in, grab my due,

exercise my voting right at the counter.

(c) 2012 Slush Poet

Real poppies don’t burn

Teenager arrested for posting burning poppy picture on Facebook

The Guardian, 12 November 2012

Because real poppies don't burn

fetch me a plastic and paper one

and a match, and together we can inflame

some indignation, strike out for freedom

of speech. For kindling we can use

old images of the Princess of Wales

and the stalwart Winston Churchill,

torn up, twisted, sweetly combustible.

For good measure hurl on some holy books

and anything wooden resembling a cross,

and flags—flags make good fuel too—

crosses, stars or stripes would do

just fine, and anything emblazoned

with a dragon is begging to get burned.

Toss on that poppy of blood red paper,

douse with gin and apply a lit taper

low down for a slow burn and added offence.

Observe for one minute it kindle in silence.

And because no one troubles

to censor or censure a poet, from the ashes

an inextinguishable image will rise

of the puerile act of burning poppies.

(c) 2012 Slush Poet

Mass evacuation

Homeless families expelled from London by councils

The Guardian, 5 November 2012

We had been at war so long
we often forgot we were at war,
looking to TiVo to keep us safe
by serving up only palatable news.
Our world was an agreeable place
to raise children, browse the stores,
catch the vital episodes
of our favourite TV soaps.
We welcomed the blacks, the Irish,
the Poles, but then came oligarchs
fleeing their own revolutions
exporting our soil. War children
once again left London by rail
this time labelled ‘do not return’.

(c) 2012 Slush Poet

A church of cards

No faith, hope or charity: church status in jeopardy

The Sunday Times, 4 November 2012

The church’s season fast approaches,

doves ascending into the night sky

up above the buses betoken the start

of this year’s festive sales, electric stars

light pilgrims’ ways from west to east—

the long trough of Oxford Street.

To the greater glory of lesser Gods

incense and gold are traded for souls,

or for the want thereof. Hark! angels

sing from doorways to the ringing of tills.

(c) 2012 Slush Poet

Smoking the pipe of peace

Three US states poised to legalise cannabis and defy ‘war on drugs’

The Guardian, 3 November 2012

So when the reeking pipe gets passed to you

meekly partake, if it’s what you want to do.

Smile and be cool, there’s no need to impress

anyone else. It would cause no offence

if you just took it, wiped some spittle away

put it to your twitching lips, or, as they say,

paid lip service. But if you want to see

what I see when I look through you, breathe

that fug like it was a mountain breeze

while I steal your wallet, your wife and the keys

to your new Mercedes Benz. Now, my friend

you’ve just got to earn it all back again.

(c) 2012 Slush Poet

Craterface

One in six homes at risk of flooding this winter

The Guardian, 2 November 2012

Early morning in my parents’ council house

with its gravelly rendering, its pimply

glass which so reminds me of frozen slugs.

Overnight the road outside has been flushed

clean away, a sewer imploding last night

beneath what had been a leaf-choked drain.

The crater is huge, like an imprint made

by a giant alien craft with one invisible

limb, lunging about in the night unseen.

Imagine the potholes where that came from!

And it could be inside the crater stalking me—

up in the blood-streaked sky I half expect

to see the earth where the moon should be.

Tonight I’ll sellotape over the mirror in case

it cracks at first sight of an alien face.

(c) 2012 Slush Poet