A carrot in the toaster

BANG!
and the dog creeps under the piano stool.

Missing the faded beauty of Autumn
we look for more colours as we step
into the murky mists of November.

Duffle-coated against the cold, we watch
the burning effigy of the man
whose memory is rekindled every year.

Lost historic drama put to the torch.

Catherine-wheels and sparklers
entrance the young. Squibs and jumping
crackers provide the edge. Echoing
sounds and sparks fire at the sky.

A bombardment to delight.

Rockets send clusters of stars to burst
into their own beautiful but fleeting galaxies
expanding to nothingness.

Is our own planet just part of a firework display,
wondrous but short-lived?

BANG!
where will we find a piano stool?

© Marion Sharville

The Vino-bug from the South of France
hops around in a gay sort of frolic.
As it eats nothing else but fermented grapes,
it is a confirmed alcoholic.

© Marion Sharville

The Lumpana has thousands of hairy legs
and keeps on running about
but the back ones run faster than the front
and it ends up inside out.

© Marion Sharville

She sits, silver-haired respectability
savouring a special day; gently
swaying to the motion of the train.
Pipes snake along dirty brick walls,
a sliding mural of power and grime.

Familiar names – southbound;
plotted positions cleverly simplified
strap-hanger high, in turn
reveal themselves through smeary windows.

The hiss and clang of doors
release and renew the flow
of tangential lives in the
brief intimacy of strangers.

A man in singlet and jeans;
work-grubby and fatigued, snaps
the ring-pull and tilts his head to drink,
wiping the back of his hand across
his thirst-quenched lips.

Two children tumble through
the hiss of doors, scrambling
for a single seat. He moves along one,
responding amiably.

Opposite, the woman smiles;
flash-point of understanding
embracing the child-tolerant years.
He slants his head and winks;
returns to his beer.

© Marion Sharville

The world is full of people
who breathe and walk about.
They laugh and cry and love and hate
and let it all hang out.

They procreate and multiply
from China to Peru.
They fight among themselves
and take their children to the zoo.

They float among the stars
and burrow underground;
enjoy the daffodils;
endure the daily round.

They spoil the world they live in,
yet give as well as take.
They patch up their mistakes,
just for the children’s sakes.

Yet, all these motley people
are completely unaware
the POET Marion Sharville
is also living there.

© Marion Sharville

The Faculty of Life regrets and fears
the package we’ve delivered is worse for wear.
It started off quite clean behind the ears
but found parts of the journey hard to bear.

The exuberance of youth first sped him on,
the outer wrapping still strong and intact
but “Follow orders, lad, now go along,
the years of war will put a stop to that.”

His mates who fell, still live inside his head
as homeward bound to strangers, he now goes.
Responsibilities and cares make up his bed
back in a life that he no longer knows.

The solitude, despite surrounding love;
a bubble that no pin can ever burst,
has changed his way of thinking; how to move
with caution, a skill in which he is well versed.

Persistence, nurtured through the killing time,
prepared the way for hope to struggle through
as shattered lives broke rank and crossed the line;
to a field of bitter memories, in which to start anew.

The outer wrap is torn but underneath,
the inner man stores courage; some to spare.
Hope, the eternal optimist, will breathe
and fan the flame of youth that once was there.

Time has patched him up with unseen thread;
embroidered golden moments on his heart
to balance things twixt living and the dead
but those closed eyes remain a vital part.

The condition of this package is a mess.
We did our very best to keep him safe
but the Faculty of Life must now confess
it was his inner strength that reached this place;
the place which now, will grant him perfect rest
and damaged goods or not… he will be blessed.

© Marion Sharville

You’re Capricorn I know my dear;
a worker of the world, I fear.
Faithful, loyal, boring too,
are things most often said of you.
Dependable right to the end.
It’s good to have you as a friend.

Speaking of friends, I wonder would
you say I’m with you, if my husband should
enquire of my whereabouts later tonight?
I’ve met this young man who looks if he might
take me to dine in a posh restaurant
and afterwards, he might even go on

to show me his flat, a penthouse moreover.
If my luck is in, he will be my lover.

You won’t?

Well, I cannot, you see. Your husband
is spending the night with me.

Loyal? Dependable? All my eye!
This astrology rubbish is ‘Pie in the sky’.

The owl and the Pussy Cat went to see
what was happening on the moon.
To get themselves there, they sat on a chair
that was tied to a big balloon.
They both looked up to the stars above
and decided the moon was too far
but a bird came along and gave them a shove
and the Owl and the Cat both said “Ta!”
said “Ta!”
said “Ta!”
The Owl and the Cat both said “Ta!”

Puss said to the Owl, “Now, why do you scowl?
you said that you wanted to come.”
“I’m supposed to be wise,
but I sometimes tell lies,
I wish I was home with my Mum.”

They floated on high to the top of the sky
then were told, “You can’t go any higher.”
They were quick to observe a mouse (with some nerve)
would not let the traffic go by her,
go by her,
go by her,
would not let the traffic go by her.

“Dear Mouse, it’s insulting
not even consulting
the AA.” The mouse said, “I know
but we must save our cheese,
now move along, please.
I’m afraid that you’ll both have to go.”

“But, there’s no way of knowing
it’s cheese that is glowing.”
She said that there certainly was.

“You mice aren’t that bright.
We don’t know if you’re right.”

“But we mice, know a man who does,
who does,
who does,
Yes, we mice know a man who does.”

The smile on Jimmy Jone’s face
shines on his friends, who, every day
bask in the warmth as each new dawn
he rises, stretching with a yawn,
prepared to captivate and lay
each preening miss in silk and lace.

No clouds of doubt obscure his sun;
the conquering hero never fails
but having won, loses his zest.

Yet, treated like a loathsome pest
by ice-cold maid with lacquered nails,
he saves his smile for just this one.

She is the sole epitome
of challenge and the Holy Grail.
Blinkered now, his friends outcast
and smiling still, is trapped at last.
No longer the philandering male
as by-gone loves watch avidly.

He buys a padlock and a chain
in velvet, in a tiny box.
The ice-cold maid is ice all through
and starts to mould her man anew.
She turns the key, the smile she locks
away…never to be seen again.

She knelt down to pick up the envelope which had just dropped on to the doormat and, with trembling hands, ripped it open and unfolded the sheet of paper….

She was always nervous opening letters, fearing bad news. Arthur usually opened them, chiding her for her silly fears; just one more little thing she missed since his recent death.
She glanced down at the unfamiliar hand-writing. Who would be writing to her Arthur?

Dear Arthur,
I know I promised I wouldn’t write but I’m afraid the money you send, each month, is no longer enough. Sharon will be fourteen soon and asks about her father all the time. I am tempted to tell her where you live.
I don’t suppose you’ve told your wife…

Doris, the letter still clutched in her hand, sat down heavily on the stairs, resting her forehead on the cool polished oak banisters. She felt weak.
Her Arthur… how could he…? All these years, never a word…fourteen, nearer fifteen years …She reached back into the past…yes, they’d been living in this very same house, 51, Barrack Street.
When could he have…? There were those conferences in Manchester…

She turned the envelope over to see the post-mark and stared, unbelievingly, at the name.
Mr Arthur Trimble, 53, Barrack Street…
”Fifty-three…next door.” She gasped. “Oh, that’s Mildred’s Arthur…”