Poems
Poems from A Kid in My Class
Poems from My Life as a Goldfish
Home Time
It’s five past three.
Sixty-four eyes look at me.
No. Sixty-two.
Not Matthew.
He hasn’t learnt to read my face.
He’s got digital. A disgrace!
I reach to ten.
The school bell sounds and then – relief.
No more glueing, sticking.
Just me and the teacher
ticking
ticking
ticking.
Raga Man
He’s the ink’s skin.
A rife fire.
A thin hint.
The lair liar.
He’s the fort’s frost.
He is part trap.
A lost slot.
The asp sap.
He’s a loot tool.
The meat’s steam.
The flue fuel.
An armed dream.
He’s a plum’s slump.
A saint stain.
He’s got smug gums
and a bairn’s brains.
Poems from The Language of Cat
Who?
Who cast the P from a spell
sold it for profit as sell,
then kept what was left
in a locked letter chest?
And who sucked the O from a hoop,
hopped off with that loop
which she balanced for fun
on the tip of her tongue?
Who stole the E from a cheat
in the street when they met for a chat,
slipped her hand in a bag
and made off with the swag?
Then who plucked the T from a thorn,
carved an ivory pen out of horn
and dipped it in ink...
Well, who do you think did that?
Nought to Nine
A ring made of gold, a doughnut and hole,
something that’s nothing that’s easy to roll.
A periscope raised, a walking stick,
the cut of a cake and a candle’s new wick.
A swan on a lake, a nun knelt in prayer,
an FA Cup handle raised in the air.
The pout of a mouth, a bird flying over,
a bra on a line, two leaves of a clover.
A neatly pressed ribbon, a kite without string
the nose of a witch and an arm in a sling.
The hand of a pirate, a flat-headed snake,
an apple divided, the latch on a gate.
A teardrop to wipe, a cherry and stalk,
the speech mark to use when your words start totalk.
Half a triangle, a fox’s ear tip,
an arrow, an arm of a hand on a hip.
Balancing balls and a circular kiss,
a hoop with a waist and a rope in a twist.
A hook in a curtain, chameleon’s tongue,
the whistle to blow when this poem is done.