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. 

© 2019 RACHEL ROONEY