Wren - Richard Fleming

See
the wren,
resplendent:
her clever eye,
her sweet essence. Deep, let her sleep be deep;
there, let the green hedge be her perfect bed;
the rye, the reed,
be her screen;
shelter
her.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - Nature-Pix

September Song - Richard Fleming

Outside the parish church, we pause,
exchange the old banalities
we flee to, at such times, because
we cannot face finality,
then nod, acknowledging a friend,
shake sundry hands, and hasten on
but cannot really comprehend
that one so long beloved has gone.

She seemed so permanent and set
on living, never letting go,
to relish life and joy and yet 
seemed not to see death as a foe.
The very air appears tight-lipped
as though the earth has ceased to sing.
It is as though the world has tipped
and scattered, headlong, everything.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - Placidplace

Coronation - Richard Fleming

That day in 1953
my family watched it on TV,
an innovation in our house.
I sat, as timid as a mouse,
enchanted by the pageantry,
the Coronation coach, the glee
of onlookers with Union Jacks,
the smooth-faced footmen made from wax,
toy-soldiers, cavalry, and guards
in uniforms like Christmas cards
We gazed in wonder and delight
at images in black and white
yet even monochrome impressed:
imagination did the rest.
I saw the young Queen, head erect,
in ceremonial robes bedecked,
her features, solemn and composed,
stiff-upper-lipped, thoughts undisclosed,
for in those far-off, post-war days
we still clung to our British ways
so joy and sorrow were suppressed,
not on parade: we thought it best.
But that day, gathered round the set,
a loud, exuberant quartet,
we sang God Save The Queen and cheered
till the last image disappeared.

Richard Fleming


Image : Twitter - @BarbaraRich_law

Someone Else’s War - Richard Fleming

We thought the war was far away
and spoiling someone else’s day
but suddenly things took a turn:
on telly we saw rockets burn
across the sky, cities were hit …
our cities. That’s what started it.
It seems that one lot broke the rules
and used their nukes, the bloody fools.
Then other nutters used theirs too
and smashed the nuclear taboo.
New York, Rome, Moscow, Gay Paree …
our own dear London ceased to be
and countless millions were surprised
to find that they’d been vaporised.
It seems unfair: we bought the flags,
donated clothes in plastic bags,
showed solidarity online,
agreed that Putin was a swine,
said worthy things on Twitter too …
what else were we supposed to do?
The Government, in whom we trust,
tell us a cloud of deadly dust
will come our way and pretty soon
but, sadly, no one is immune.
It’s radiation: stuff, we’re told
will kill us slowly. We’re consoled
that all our neighbours, too, will die
so this small note’s to say goodbye
but who’s to read it, for the dust
gets everybody, as it must.
We hug each other, whisper love.
The sky is darkening above.
We thought, it’s someone else’s war:
alas, it isn’t any more.

Richard Fleming

Image : © When the Wind Blows - Raymond Briggs

Shooting Pains - Richard Fleming

Another day, another mall,
another shooting to appall
the world, astonished, that looks on
and, once again, the ghastly spawn
of frontier days produces nerds
who shoot, as though at bison herds,
and random bullets rip apart
some stranger’s brain, her lung, his heart.
For seconds, time’s arrested, then
restarts: the screaming starts again
in this red space, Hell’s ghastly twin,
as mall-security kicks in
too late, of course: the murdered child,
eviscerated and defiled,
the adults’ bodies, gutted, thrown
aside like debris, entrails, bone
exposed. These people won’t resume
their lively shopping in this tomb.
The shooter’s down: restrained, he screams
about his foul, frustrated dreams.
As sirens shriek, survivors cling,
to one another, anything
that has a heart that’s beating yet.
Blood spreads like a grotesque rosette.
 
Richard Fleming


Image : conversationprints.com

Rough Beast - Richard Fleming

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
W B Yeats
 
Beware. Down in the woods today
the Teddy Bears have gone away
and, in their place, a monstrous beast,
by some foul chance, has been released,
perhaps the beast Yeats wrote about.
It has great antlers and a snout
but walks upright, with slouching gait,
and fiery eyes brimful of hate.
Yeats’ famous poem got it right:
it’s written there in black and white.
Life’s started imitating art.
The centre’s gone.
Things fall apart.

Richard Fleming

Image : "The Thing What Whispers" by Kat Philbin (@stupidanimals)

Paris - Richard Fleming

we meet on a sunlit bridge                  in an ancient city in spring
and our shadows merge                        we meet like eager lovers
inhaling sweetness                                        your cool skin scent
apple blossom                                                    drenches my lips
the river                                                                           the light
sings                                                                                     sings
wings                                                                                 wishes
or prayers                                                                      unspoken
sweep overhead                                                 escape like birds
we stand like statues                                our lips eyes fingertips
our vows now set in stone                connect to become but one
sky a purple mass of starlings     stretching beyond and beyond

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - congerdesign

Blackbird - Richard Fleming

With catapult, once school was finished,
I went to hunt in woodland, high
above Belfast, in summer light
and heard, among leafed branches spread,
a blackbird, singing like a bell.
I took aim, shot; the missile flew
unerringly, my aim was true.
with awful suddenness it fell,
all broken. Exultation fled,
to be replaced by sickly fright.
I knelt to watch it slowly die.
Within me somewhere, light diminished.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - Jetiveri

Young Nicolai - Richard Fleming

Young Nicolai was made to fight.
He didn’t think that it was right
but sometimes men just have to do
what men are told and march on cue.
The Leader said, now, here’s a sword,
chop someone up if you get bored
but make sure it’s the enemy.
You’re going on a jolly spree
and there’s a shield to keep at bay
those you may meet with on the way:
unpleasant types that might resist
your presence, but you must insist
their land is yours, you have the right
to seize it. Should they dare to fight,
just do some chopping, kill a few
and lots of medals will accrue.
Young Nicolai was very scared
and as a soldier, unprepared,
to go off with a sword and shield
to battle in a neighbour’s field.
To his surprise, when he got there
it didn’t really seem quite fair:
the enemy had such small knives
and some of them were daughters, wives,
in fact, not quite the monsters he
was told the enemy would be:
they had no swords or shields at all.
A stout babushka in a shawl
waved her old fist and cried, go back
(a strange way to repel attack).
The worst of it was that they seemed
so much like him. He never dreamed
that enemies, the sort we cuss,
are pretty much the same as us.
Brave Nicolai fought a good fight:
he chopped to left, he lopped to right,
but, by the time that he had stopped,
so many still remained un-chopped.
It seemed that they would not submit.
He tried to make some sense of it.
but, though he pondered, long and hard,
amidst the rubble, black and charred,
no answer came. That’s hardly strange,
for war is war. Things never change.

Richard Fleming

Image : Berserker - one of the Lewis Chessmen

I Thee Wed - Richard Fleming

As, with this gas-mask I thee wed,
Zed-missiles whistle overhead.
Machine-gun fire to left and right
reminds us of our parlous plight.
Our wedding bed is now debris,
our Best Man is a refugee:
he had a funny speech prepared
but scarpered when the sirens blared.
Amazing how war can transform:
our Bridesmaids are in uniform
and crouch in trenches, day and night,
untrained, but still prepared to fight.
The other day, the church got hit
but church or no church, we’ll commit
and, though we can’t walk down the aisle,
let’s opt for marriage Ukraine-style.

Richard Fleming

Image : Behance.net

At Grandfather’s - Richard Fleming

Along the entry
he would come caterwauling,
striking bin-lids with his stick,
through the backyard
knocking over milk bottles.

Up the wooden stair, rolling
like a tar,
to lifeboat-bed and disapproval:
his salty, mermaid wife
growling like an ocean.

On Sunday mornings there,
we children crouched, like mice,
digesting toast and catechisms,
as grandma stepped,
stiff-backed, around him.

He would be still as stone, his bowl
of porridge cooling.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - aamiraimer

Ship In A Bottle - Richard Fleming

He dreamed of oceans as a child;
would run away to sea when grown;
might sail the chill Atlantic, wild,
or broad Pacific, tempest blown;

but grown to adulthood, he failed
in everything. There was no prow
or spreading wake: he never sailed.
He seeks his ships in bottles now.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - fadliabravers

Images - Richard Fleming

This is a tree, he said and pointed to a tree.
We have seen images, they said.
There are many trees, he said. This tree is cedar.
We have seen images, they said.

Here is a flower, he said and pointed to a flower.
We have seen images, they said.
There are various flowers, he said. This is a rose.
We have seen images, they said.

This is a cat, he said. See it moves. Watch it stretch.
Just like the images, they said.
This is a dog, he said. Watch as it wags its tail.
Images are better, they said.

That is the sky. Those small birds are swallows, he said.
We have seen images, they said.
Over there are blue mountains and a lake, he said.
Can we go back inside? they said.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - JESHOOTS-com

Sons - Richard Fleming

On a yellowed flyleaf, half a century ago,
my mother wrote to say Birthday Wishes
and Mum, that name that buries self away.
I was her firstborn, headstrong, loving,
exuberant, wilfully astray.
My childhood fears, unbidden tears,
the small, lost battles of the day,
she dissipated in her arms.
My daughter holds her sons that way.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - VaniaRaposo

Icarus - Richard Fleming

I am falling from high
but they do not notice.

The air, through wings
that promised much,
keens like a mourner.

Creeping ants below
evolve
to shepherd, ploughman, angler.

I fall unseen.

Someone
will dream it later.

I have no time
to scream.

The water is
hard as stone.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - dimitrisvetsikas1969

Recluse - Richard Fleming

All scattered to the winds and ways,
like blushing cherry blossom blown,
the friends, he knew when not full-grown,
have vanished from his elder days.
The carelessness of childhood meant
that friendships were a thing to find
then let escape. No contract signed.
No deal. A currency unspent.
If friendships had been coins or gold,
he might have locked inside a cage
all he had gathered to assuage
the loneliness of growing old.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - michaelform

Revenge - Richard Fleming

Perhaps there is an explanation, dear,
but you’re not here to set my mind at rest.
Death puts a stop to questions, so I fear
this one must stay unanswered or addressed.
Among your things I found a photograph:
it must be recent, you look hardly changed.
A stranger smiles beside you as you laugh,
your hair and solemn features disarranged.
In looking closer I can ascertain
you two are linked: there is a recklessness
about your pose, while he is cool, urbane.
It pains me so, this photograph, and yes,
our marriage wasn’t perfect: I would stray,
but, posthumously, you’ve made sure I pay.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - Free-Photos

Owl - Richard Fleming

In a green lane in St Peter’s
near midnight, under a full moon,
a pale owl flew across my path, silently,
then low
over dark fields to the tree-line, hunting.
 
I turned
to watch his tireless sweep
over dumb ground, mist spreading like a shroud,
till I lost sight of him,
and coldness, creeping,
turned my leaden footsteps home.
 
In bed, near daybreak,
I jerk awake, heart pounding,
mindful of accelerating time, moments eaten up,
of golden, soundless wings,
that questing eye;
sharp talons reaching for my heart.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - Comfreak

Bluebell Wood - Richard Fleming

Springtime in Bluebell Wood: trees
stand like galleons.
Sunlight illuminates their leafy masts and rigging.
They rest, becalmed, as breezes animate
their bluebell ocean,
creating turbulence and subtle currents,
that imitate that other, greater sea
beyond.

Artists come here year by year
with skill, technique or passionate concern,
with misty lens, charcoal, brush or pen
but some pass by
who simply gaze and stand
as I am standing now,
embracing, in this soaring moment,
a sad, sweet symphony in dusty blue.

Richard Fleming

The Call - Richard Fleming

We watched a small boat on the lake:
oars dipped and rose, oars dipped and rose,
and strollers, happy, I suppose,
went by, each blind to our heartache.
We held each other, did not speak
too numb to search for words to soothe:
instead, embraced the dreadful truth
and, in truth’s loveless arms, grew weak.
An hour ago, we laughed and shopped,
drank coffee, waited for a bus,
then came the call that murdered us:
Time slowed, then stalled. Now time has stopped.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - TF3000