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Poems

  • Striding

    Three boys, brothers 

    by their gaze and gait;

    the taller two steps 

    ahead. The smaller 

    messing with stuffed

    pockets half runs 

    to keep up.

     

    Did we walk that way?

    Me strutting ahead

    embarrassed by your

    childishness, playing

    it cool, almost a man.

     

    We walk together now,

    measured pace.

    Three men, brothers. 

     

    ©  Craig Muir 2019

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    This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

  • Wordhoard

    Wordhoard

     

    Words matter.

    The ones we use 

    and those we discarded.

    The ones we blurt

    and those that will never return.

    The ones we hear 

    and those we disregard

    The ones we splutter

    furious, tearful, uncertain.

     

    That word matters.

    The one that closes,

    and this re-imagined.

    The one that dies

    and these that stop us in our tracks.  

    The one that heals

    and this that gives blessing.

    The one that opens

    wisdom, debate, ifs and perhaps.

     

    Words live on.

    The ones broken,

    and those we remember

    The ones revised

    and those we hold untenable.

    The ones ungagged

    and those we will always bear.

    The ones exploded

    unheard and intersectional.

     

    Each word matters.

    Coddle - breast - wean - nurture;

    Paddle - stroke - somersaults with twist;

    Regard - bless - treasure -  weigh.

     

    Craig Muir 2018

    Creative Commons License
    This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.

  • Scullery

    They found it on the table when they woke up and it slithered onto the floor, along the skirting and into the scullery where it sniffed and sneezed whenever anyone approached it. Slowly, it spread from one corner to the other, lounging across the drainer and over the tiled floor.

    On the first day they were intrigued, taking photos, posting pictures and probing friends as to its source and provenance - with limited success.

    The next morning it was wrapped around the shelves, snarling whenever they tried to reach the washing-up liquid - the dishes were left undone. That afternoon it snapped when they looked to run a kettle - they went without coffee. That evening as they peeked around the door there was an aroma of aniseed, sweet alyssum, and Aunty Anne’s artichoke soup. They closed the door.

    On the third day, it had gone - but so had the scullery. Where once there had been an opening, well used over the decades there was a finished, skimmed, painted stud wall and a large print of Molinari’s “Adam and Eve”. The old oak kitchen units were no more, and had been replaced with a modern fitted kitchen - only the table remained. They drank coffee, washed up and wondered what had disrupted their perfect existence.

    From the outside there was a perfectly aged brick wall with anise, sweet alyssum and artichokes growing in abundance as if no scullery had ever been in existence. They tapped on walls, dug deep looking for foundations, searched out old photos seeking evidence that the house had once had a scullery - with no success. 

    “How could this be?” they sniffed at one another as they harvested the aniseed to flavour their food.

    “It lived here”, they sneezed. And squeezed out aniseed oil to create a congestion clearing aroma for the vaporiser. 

    “Believe us!” they snarled as former friends doubted their strange tale - even whilst enjoying the soup recipes they had now perfected

    “Leave us!” they snapped at Molinari, “Take your easel, your paints and leave us to live as slaves no more.” So, he left them - lying naked in the clearing, they slithered onto the forest floor, along the roots and into the scullery

     

    Craig Muir 2018

    Creative Commons License
    This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.