Dementia's Sphere

His feet shuffle

and serve an ace,

in his mind; perpetual

ping-pong.

His slippers collect stones,

knees quiver below white linen,

beneath an ashen Asian face.

The paddle in his hand

ricochets in the air,

of Olympic dreams,

in senility.

His carer,

cloth wrinkled around his torso,

is an apparition,

a reflected shadow,

paddling the net.

He could be a ball-boy – the carer,

in the vapid mind of the

demented,

the white sphere of dementia

collected by his silent hands.

Each tree and shrub

is a spectator, wind cheering

in the eaves,

even I – a pond skater in the pool

of his mind.

Imagine the misted surface broken

by reeds:

this is his life.

La Senza

An ungrammatical name

for a lingerie store,

my waiting manikin poses

in the soft-backed seat.

My set eyes, clouded

hollow as a cue ball,

pocket distant daydreams

in a lacy broguish land.

Plastic nipples arrow pupils

with pubescent curlicue

petals; they float softly

over my expressionless face.

Slivers of silk separate buttocks,

strapless bras threaten exposure,

and the fleshy purchasers

press breasts, slap cheeks.

Wooden doors hide pleasures.

Her feet hover in the slip

below, and time trickles

as knickers flicker to floors.

Store hands tape measures

then fizzle, dissolving

as a vacant vessel stare

attends to my time,

my final restless scene

that of shopping bags

bound to boyfriends' feet,

our bums bolted to seats.

Extract from Button Oak

Daniel Boder hadn’t always been known as Daniel Boder. Not in his youth. Danny, they called him, sometimes Danny-boy or Bod, or Bod-boy; silly, strange names that only boys could make up or bullies badger with. His younger brother had called him Dan, even when everyone else seemed to prefer to call him Danny.

            But now, lying in a hospital bed in some anonymous NHS ward, he is old and known by his full name. The paperwork on the clipboard at the foot of the bed says ‘Daniel Joe Boder’. His age is listed as 72.

            He can’t remember the last time someone had called him Danny, or Danny-boy, or even just Daniel. It was always Mr. Boder these days. Wrinkles, baldness, creaking bones just didn’t qualify you for a first name.

            There was talk of a stroke. He thinks. His memory is fading, at least his short term memory. There were definite talks about pneumonia though, he remembered those.

            “Mr. Boden,” started the Doctor. Doctor whathisname. Even if he could remember it, he’d never be able to pronounce it. Much less spell it. “… are you listening, Mr. Boden? You seem, distant…”

            “Sorry, I am listening…” he replied hoarsely, though he was finding it hard to concentrate. How long had he been recovering?

            There was a big clock at the end of the ward showing the date in addition to the time. He suddenly realised tomorrow was the anniversary.

            “Well, Mr. Boden, we think you’ve suffered a…” blah blah blah. Somewhere in the middle of the speech the Doctor whatshisname said something about pneumonia, but his eyes were on that clock, and his mind was in 1955.

Mallendreath, then and now

Frying calves and tops of shoulders,

flailing sand, damming water,

building bolt holes from their brothers,

chasing sisters, splashing faces,

crushing castles into ruin,

eating sand stuck in the butter,

blown like needles in the wind

across the colour of the breaker,

from the waveward openness,

swimming, freezing, Frisbee throwing,

diving salt-ways catching salt

and seaweed in their throats and toes,

dragging fishing line from anglers,

red noses from the searing sea

– and sod the cream –

they're triple-jumping,

basking in the waves of glory

casting minds and reeling dreams

of Olympic wins,

as dad descends with torches of ice

to burn their tongues with cream,

and set alight their holiday.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Walls” perishes

in the grey matter of walls

– ice creams coated

in neglect on the plaque,

and boards barricade

the holiday brigade

from the tuppence machine

of mindless escape.

Up the hill,

a JCB digs a platform

for an extension,

burying the laughter.

Other houses stand sentinel

over the child- and paint-less shell,

like family members

at a bedside.

A grey cloud of dust seems

ready to shroud.

Come on JCB,

have mercy.

Freezes and Heart Squeezes

Climbing into bed in the cold snap,

lungs like the tinsel-covered trees outside,

nature’s winter decoration;

baubles of snow splintering from frozen branches,

the grass beneath a mass of white worms

static-crawling.

Britain from space a titanic iceberg, sinking spirits,

snapped from Europe’s bough.

A pool of ice at the bottom of the bed

turns toes inwards,

foetal, blue thoughts withdraw towards

inner warmth;

memories of holding you,

face nestled in my neck,

breathing the scent of your hair;

hail! ‘heart squeezy’ feelings;

ounce by ounce your lingering heat,

wrung free, thaws me.