Vanishing Cream

Hocus Pocus, stalk of crocus,
eye of moke that's out of focus,
tongue of lizard, hair of wizard
minced up with a turkey's gizard-

stir the brew and let it stew.
Cook it through till it turns blue.
Round it dance till in a trance
then advance with ghastly chants.

Paste it thinly on our books
so that when she comes and looks
she'll inhale the noxious fume
disappearing from the room.

Dorothy Pope

Music

What is the source
of music,
where did rhythm and song
have their birth?
Was it the thunder of herds
that mammoth bones copied,
echoing and invoking their percussion
on the tight skin of earth?
Or was it the beat of heart
that fed the tempo
and was lifted itself in return,
a feedback loop of vibration
between bone and body
until the two became one instrument,
dancing the notes of a tune?

Are the ordered ranks of concert audience
that seem so quiet, so still,
an integral part of the orchestra,
playing the melody in each cell,
beating the time with their blood
while harmonies frisson
their skin?

Music, the art
of the Muses,
carrying inspiration on the air
like thistledown
so we each can hear
the acoustics of words,
or the meter of leaves blown by wind.
Music is a listening art
that weaves its timbre and texture
into the day’s creases.


©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk

She

She's smiling there
a figment in oils
toned cream and tan
with high summer shadows.
Four years back
I sketched this swimsuit model
in high heels
aeroplane nose-art fashion,
hands behind head
knee crooked forward
posing on a beach stage,
to cottage and boat applause.
It's complete now, but for a vague
uncoloured face
and costume,
and if i'm really honest,
I know I painted you.

Jerry Pike

Spring Day In London

Lakes of daffodils in Green Park
cushion the lunching couples
floodlight wedding guests
drifting to receptions at the Ritz.

At the Royal Academy
rugged Aztec gods grimace,
flights of lost humming birds
weave mosaics with effulgent feathers.

Dancers sway and flame
like candles, casual as fire
patterning to music
and a drum's decree.

A peerless sky all day
the city smiling
strangers speaking.
IT'S WAR

Newspapers shriek
minds darken
early bullets whistle
through desert air

Flotillas of planes
converge screaming
on citizens

Sand-blinded soldiers
crouch in tanks
heat stifled.

Fear in the throat.

Is he there?

Sylvia Goodman