Wednesday, 17 January 2018

19th January 2018

scattered snowfall
the cat craps in the kitchen
you're welcome, human


© Rachel Green 2018

my father's room
untouched since his death
still smells of his hand cream
twenty years later.
His old television;
black and white CRT,
his radiogram
and box of albums -- anthems
of the second world war.
Tins of dry tobacco,
another of silver farthings,
and one of thrupenny pieces
he'd saved when they went out of circulation.
My mother's plaster virgin,
the water from Lourdes long evaporated,
the black faux-fur coat
she used to wear to church
and the plastic Christmas tree she decorated
next to his pile of identical blue shirts
and identical grey slacks.
The feather matress is damp from disuse
my mother's rose wallpaper,
peeling.


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 16 January 2018

16th January 2018

sunbeams
through the snow showers
muddy dogs


© Rachel Green 2018

stripping games
from the anonymous browser PC
to make space
and memory usage
Some massive epics
I never played
(too much time investment)
and others,
tiny favourites,
I played over and over
trying to recapture the excitement
of the first time I played.
Now the PC runs Tor netwirk
VPN, private IP.
I watch films and TV
instead of gaming
but I still don't write.


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 15 January 2018

15th January 2018

incessant rain
perhaps another cup of tea before dog walking
just resting my eyes


© Rachel Green 2018

quiet house
despite the washing machine
and the tumble drier
my love working away
leaves me silent and bereft.
Friday seems so far away
when it's only Monday morning
and the infection in my eys
weeps bitter tears
across the fever heat pf my cheek
Barkless dogs.

© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 14 January 2018

January 14th 2018

old dog
wading through the mud
winter rain


© Rachel Green 2018

sending stuff away
a bookcase offered free
turned down by the lady
so I re-listed it for a tenner
and sold it forthwith.
An old HP Mini
running windows seven
very slowly
I sell it off for thirty quid.
It all helps the overdraft.
What wonders lurk beneath the desk?
a colour screen baby monitor at least
maybe a pushchair, too.
We'll see.


© Rachel Green 2018

Saturday, 13 January 2018

13th January 2018

sparrow
calling from the bare branches.
morning damp


© Rachel Green 2018

bookcase
reduced to nothing
and removed.
boxes of old books
I'll never read again
given away
Others sold for pennies
to an online store
more still recycled
to charity shops.

A feeling of relief
for fewer possessions.


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 12 January 2018

12th January 2018


pre-dawn birdsong
carried on grey wind
new streetlights


© Rachel Green 2018

new for old
we drag a washing machine
from Lu's car to the kitchen
and leave it there for a while.
Later, I drag the old one out
(the kitchen floods because the water doesn't turn off)
and set it by the bins;
connect the new one
and clean the floor.
The scrap men take the old one
five minutes later
and the ancient dog
craps on the leather sofa.


© Rachel Green 2018

Thursday, 11 January 2018

11th January 2018

© Rachel Green 2018

lamp post technician
dressed like a Belisha beacon
among the dead leaves


© Rachel Green 2018

Kondo-ing
death cleaning;
Whatever I cal it, it's taken hold
of my spirit, my soul.
So many books I owned
going to landfill
and charity shops
but I still can't part
with exhibition displays
of treasured artists,
or those, so popular in the eighties,
now forgotten names
on a register
of out of print catalogues


© Rachel Green 2018