Blood

Blood

Does blood bother you?
asked the nurse, exposing
the needle.
No I said and felt the tightening
of the tourniquet.

Yes, blood bothers me.
Blood spilled in darkness
by boy-men with spiteful blades,
washed away by a mother's tears.

Yes, blood bothers me.
Running crimson in dusty streets
and dirty scream-filled hospitals
as bombs rain down.

Yes, blood bothers me.
When blood and purity are mixed
to sanitise, cleanse, bleach,
and whitewash hate.

I stayed silent and I lied.
And yes, we both know
that I looked away.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Sidewalks

Sidewalks

Dark city streets cool
after the heat of the day.
Fast food litter
in the gutters,
an accustomed stench.

All eyes are suspicious;
the old ones close their doors
as the young take their chances
on the sidewalks.

The boy hears wailing sirens
and sees the pulsing blue-red light.
Presses himself into the wall,
dark clothes in the shadows.
They are looking
for somebody, anybody.

Which is hard to take,
when you're a nobody.

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Water Tower

This was inspired by the Water Tower in Vukovar, Croatia. We visited it in July 2019.

Water Tower

I remember, when I was young,
that all I needed
to do was to hold water.

Up and down the river
the boats sailed
as I filled and emptied
while the waters rose and fell.
My people would climb
inside to see the panorama
that was mine
by day and night.

Then, one day, in a shock
of noise and fire,
everything changed.

I watched as

innocent homes,

museums, workplaces

fell like sandcastles
in rolling tides.

Hollow, burning shells
with skull eyes stared
at me in the darkness.

I took blow upon blow,
punished with holes
and gashes, barely standing.

At last all was quiet;
resting in the stink of death. 

I became no longer
just a tower.
They will keep me, gaze on
my wounded body,
preserved as something

I never wanted to be.

Tim Fellows 2019

Collecting

Collecting

In lockdown, he had more time
to view his collection.
To remember the lonely
teenage hours spent searching
for an elusive flash of colour.
Or in the dim light of his study,
carefully attaching them, pinning
his hopes and dreams
on Red Admirals,
Swallowtails, Cabbage Whites,
Commas, Brimstones
and Holly Blues.

He dwelt on all
that was wasted,
a life as sterile
as the delicate dead things
so carefully labelled,
so scrupulously catalogued.


Tim Fellows April 2020

Image by flohrflohr from Pixabay

Slayley Lane

This is a haibun - a Japanese form of combined prose and haiku.

Slayley Lane

I always dreaded this part of the route. The bottom of the valley had been flooded after heavy rain, and the cold squelching in my muddy shoes had not yet subsided. The track, sloping steeply and one tractor wide, was uneven with rocks and stones of varying size and shape. Enough to trip anyone, let alone someone trying to run and breathing in heavy, heart-pounding gulps. To get to the top without walking was the Holy Grail. This day I failed. But as my heartbeat slowed I heard only beauty – the wind fluttering in the trees that lined this bucolic avenue, some birds, and a horse whinnying. 

                                                                           The prizes we seek

                                                                           Manacle our weary minds

                                                                           Blanket our senses

Tim Fellows 2020

Elche

I wrote this after flying to Alicante in 2019. 

Elche

The plane banks, tilting in the dusk,
creasing the early evening air.
I still see the sun, painting the horizon
with oranges, reds and fading yellows.

Below, a Spanish city comes to life.
We are low, and the cars
leave trails of tiny lights as they come
and go. Streets and houses are lit, and I
imagine the thousands of lives being lived,
tiny actors playing unscripted parts.
Births, marriages, deaths. Sorrow, joy
and pain.

The wing lifts and the city disappears.

              Mis hermanos, hermanas
              are you really there?
              Have you vanished too,
              in the failing light,
              and have I dreamed
              the sultry evenings
              of Spanish summers?

Tim Fellows 2020

Trampoline

This poem started as a "Golden Shovel" - a format where you take a line of a poem, song or book that you like and use the words to be the last line of the poem.

I did that, but it didn't seem right, so I tweaked it. The original phrase is in there, but can you spot it?

Trampoline

After Paul Simon

A trampoline.

She knew that there's a place
for a trampoline in a garden
for kids. Boy or girl -
either would love to revel
in the joy that every new
tumbling sensation bought to a child.

In York she had grown up outside
the old city walls but never with a garden.

Her phone rang.

Who was ringing her? Nobody calls
her in the morning. She felt herself
go cold as the voice said the treatment
had failed. More tests. This wasn't human.
Not again. She couldn't do it again.

She never did buy that trampoline.

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians from Pixabay