THREE POEMS by SANFORD BLACK

FRENCH FOR THE WEEKEND


a roof rack on a space shuttle

a pilot, a mother and a third wheelin’ lover

spittin’ out rocket fuel as if it was prosecco

flying down the asphalt like there’s no tomorrow


a dream, an idea, sparked by Mother

too unique to fear, shouting


we’re coming, bayonets blazing, dear!

hold my smoking jacket, my fists are in the air!


a night in an airport, under moving stars and noisy comets

rocking the ground and rumbling the window sills

blankets held tightly, away from the prying eyes of the underworld


nasty dennis takes selfies next to his mates girl

causing a mental typhoon to whirl and twist and swirl

as crazy one-eyed joe battles the kid

standing in the darkness cracking the night with his whip


no time for this, this made up babble

let us not dither around this campsite mid-squabble

how about a jolly game of scrabble?

before I straighten up from this log

and trim your chase with my baton and dog

which coincidentally I’m sat on, in the middle of a sob


visage entre les cuisses

I want to bury my face in your... cat,

said the feline lover to the breeder


she looks hungry, shall we open this can of meat and feed her?

she’s breathing heavy, I think she’s ready, for a meaty supper

that‘ll slide down her throat real steady.


a horses hiney

a coin real shiny

faeces spread onto a dishcloth

but the portion is tiny


peppercorn seeds and creamy goop

a fly hovering around laying its eggs in your soup


dribbly words and bubbled laughs

spewing from mouths with gas from his ass


and Barry White singing

a song for the road

but his voice has been lost

and it’s gone an octave deeper

so now all they hear is a dullening patter

where words were once spoken

now, his voice vibrates the batter.


shaking vases and walking the frames

of kids with no faces and forgetful first names

such a shame

he vibrates on, all the same


horizontal stripes across a chest

a beret tipped forwards

pointing to a lively vest


ankles rolled to shins

revealing dainty pins

and shiny rims and trims


all of these things are just things!

the pauper in the gutter sings.


feathers turn yellow to white

and the day turns to dark from light


I’ll be sitting

counting bottles of wine that she sends,

but one day we’ll all go back

to france for the weekend.

 

ANYWHERE, WE COULD BE


in the black of goose, a twisted noose

not in the hoose! she laughs at the moose


now, the goose is chased by a dog

a hungry one at that, she’ll never win


the goose is angry and pecks at her face

but, it isn’t even a goose - it’s a duck!


she tries to run at the horse

not, though, a hoose

that’s a house where, lives, the little mouse

but not the moose...


a happy place, where everything, well, works

frowns hang on faces,

upside down, happy races

rosettes brag about 1st, 2nd and even 3rd places


stables creak in the beat of the sun

the hoose runs and cracks the ground like a gun

just for fun


the dog rallies and shouts with a grin

open this gate - let me come in!

the gate is opened but the dog remains

the hoose leaps high

his neighing, to her, just tames


the sofa, so comfy, on the grass

with a lampshade,

a microwave,

a cutlery drawer,

(and a hoover!)


sat around a bowl of fire

that singes the bum of a grandma

who doesn’t even notice


warm, she sits, in the night knitting, no lights

how can she even see?

we cannot be sure

she might even be asleep?

she’s slumped on the floor!


move grandma away from the fire

pat her down and pour in some biscuits

that’ll ease her chattering!

move her to the swing - that big hanging tractor tyre!


steps, built from mud

lead down to a gate

where a river awaits

to sweep you off to an ale house in town


(a mooring rail

a chimpanzees tail

a sign pinned in by a nail!)


where samples of dirty pants are handed out in glasses


try this one, Sir... freshly peeled from my legs, today!


I don’t think so but


I’ll try one of those familiar looking socks you’ve got on the shelf,

that looks tasty, crispy, bad for my health?


the sock is poked in

by a laughing black cat

gladly, who takes cheese for payment

if only he had thumbs to work the till

he manages, but badly


a hammer and chisel

cuts on shy knuckles

silly salt gets wrecked

holding onto wood, might of life

blood signage on sanded walls

smoke pluming to space

dinner calls


faster pulses and dusty eyes

blue sockets strike through cloudy skies

snails crawl out and leave a trail

all the way from neck to hip

elastic eased and easily, downwards, it slips


and a walk on a path that’s white like snow

though, hot not cold - bare legs, now, on show


now nosey faces with guns

peer out of tinted windows

questioning life, with envy, like nuns?


golden grass swaying

a crowd of ravers

yellow pollen dishes out sneezes for favours


a rumble on tracks bricked up to the sky

brave echoes follow as we walk

now, I can hear your honey as you talk

dainty slip-ons balance on the chalk


visions of summers and all kinds of mischief

pillowy natter as our hands kiss

different continents are great

but it never really matters


with you and your eyes close to my own

our dreams can travel far


Rome to home

Hebden to Coggles

New Zealand to Tickencote


anywhere, we could be, is fine by me.

 

BEFORE THE ROADS BECAME CONGESTED


yellow, like the sun

opening the day with lust

young motors, one older than the other

one that’s ready

older than her brother


a seat made for one

a helmet to hide wide eyes

tipping toes, just about

holding on to the ground

keeping life balanced, a surprise


in view

an open road

yet, forever behind other traffic.


a number plate, unlike the rest

from a different place, alien


itchy, cloth seat covers

uncomfortable for bare skin and bottoms

time played its cruel tricks with a grin


a gear knob bigger than a fist

a steering wheel fitted with make-up

suggested and gifted

grease painted on with a cloth

though flies stuck to the bumper and stayed on


gun-metal grey

money fell out of five doors

I wanted to be you, chauffeuring tarts around

laying them down on the ground in closed car parks

wheel spins and twisted limbs

engines running and revving

without a care for all the other things


music stolen from a heart

the beatnik stripped and raped of all its parts.


we drove too far in front of your dead brother

I could never stand your judgemental mother


[saying absolutely nothing!]


borrowed wheels from my best friend

I left my knuckle on broken glass

overtook a ghost doing 100mph


this place, man, jesus!

we have to drive away from

but I’ll come back to Bedlam for someone.


I could’ve slept, in you

no room, though, for a past

not enough windows to last


window wipers burnt out

motors and emotions evaporated


we rallied up the hill to come down

and back down the hill to go back up again


too many deliveries for us to follow

not enough screenwash to keep cleaning mudded glass.


you rescued me from a sloppy gear stick

you, though, were automatic

windows remained tinted after 10 years

seats stayed clean despite crumbs falling from little fingers


beaten, then, by a lorry

scarred and abused by the past

the radio was our constant friend

no time to play or pretend, just a dead end.


sky blue

laden with bumps, scratches, marks and secrets

leather seats perfect for wiping and cleaning


headlights broke relationships

deceptively masked drivers faces

unhooked and removed skimpy bras


a bonnet strong enough to hold a moment

the ideal height to rev an engine

and raise the noise of lonely hearts


now

six legs under 6

7 seats in rows

a black and white field dolphin

exactly what the doctor ordered

a scruffy lad scratching and clawing


hold on to icey trails

adventure in a vessel with little legs propped up on pillows

tesco bags full of food blocking the rolling sky


dreams under stars and nylon

we love our road, our home


my X is 90.

 

Sanford Black is a writer from Grantham, UK. He has poetry online at A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Outcast Press, and has his first chapbook coming out late summer '22 with Alien Buddha Press. He is also the Worcester Amnesty Groups Human Writes Poetry competition winner for 2022 with his poems Azadi & Soap.