Hula Hoops
I hunter gather in the corner shop
by the towers and flats of cardboard city
with its own creole of rustle and crunch,
while silver-clutching kids niggle my nostalgia.
YOU GETTA A WHOLE LOTTA HULA FROM A HOOP!
It’s not just a 30p, 30g, two E’s
and two hundred calories
packet of oral bliss, but the ring
of a ritual unwinding from work to rest
which punctuate the weekly fix
of Coronation Street. I lay my exhibits
on the catwalk of my chair, they trundle
my playtime thoughts: quoits or bangles,
paper chains or drains or chimney pots;
an assault course of potato pleasure.
An up and under finger sweeps. A tongue
squeezes inside like an ugly sister.
While love and drama swim my eyes and ears,
jaws crunch and crunch. A jousting spear
picks off each ring – then only the bits remain
remind my unwound self of a want to rewind.
I getta a whole lotta hula from my hoops!
Porridge
This food has history, Goldilocks
Oliver, doing time. A bowl of moon mud
hugs a winter tummy. Its goodness
seeps, a tasty, toasted superfood.
I’m told my grandad cut a slice or two,
wrapped in paper, ready for the pit
with a can of cold sweet tea and sweat,
back bent by the higher-pay seam.
Mum waltzed the spoon around the pot,
ate her oats thick with Lyle’s treacle.
Before the diabetes Dad slurped breakfast
with isles of syrup, an estuary of milk.
My sister beads its woolly skin with bling,
seeds, blackcurrants, even nuts.
I like it just right, not too hot, not too cold.
Jumbo flakes and milk splutter together.
I puzzle how granddad could cut slices,
how they clouded his dust black fingers,
how he ate where he’d seen his father die
crushed inside the earth’s intestine.
Cheese Show
This is the pilgrimage of cheese,
Of every shade and race and shape.
Unpacked and laid on trestle altars.
Cooled, aligned, smoothed out and scraped.
Sexy Gouda, sealed halloumi,
Swaddled bundles, rusted blues.
Set to be smelt and felt and tasted
In oil, in foil, full moon, half-moon.
The cheese iron burrows the skin,
Uncorks a flubbery pillar
Whiskered judges nibble, discuss
The balance, fruitiness and colour.
Apples clean the expert palettes
of years of tastes. The quest is on
to find the king, the best in show.
The cheese of cheeses, the chosen one.
Making Tarts with Laura
The morning is thrilled by lemon curd.
Your impish hand dives in the yolky pool
of yummy love and deeper, spooning
down clouded glass sides, scooping
the corners of my youth. ‘It’s like
chic bath gel, mum, ‘ she smiles.
She tugs at its checked shower cap.
Cottage logos and curly fonts
evoke a different past from mine,
a phlegmy kid smearing grey tarts
licking gluey dregs from fingers.
Assuming there is always more,
she crams the cupped pastry palms
The scoop and dollop wipes away
my bitter, frugal aftertaste,
the rustic roses grow on us.
Coffee with Pat
“A coffee please.”
“Mocha or Americano? One shot or two?
Latte or expresso, milk, cream or soya?
Skimmed or semi-skimmed or will full fat do?
Sugar? Crystals, lumps, rocks or sweetener?
Decaff or caff, white or brown, large or small-
or regular is popular? Take in, take away?
Syrups – caramel, nut or none at all?
Cocoa topping, swirly top? “It was taking all day.
The yuppies behind us became agitated
and seize-the-day Pat -who is terminally ill
doesn’t want the illusion of choices
in a round of Mastermind at the till.
It drove me so potty I bought a biscotti
but when I sat down I forgot where I put it-
went to the counter feeling very dotty
to ask for another-and the wrapper, couldn’t cut it.
Imagine the embarrassment two hours later
in the loo, when I found, in my bag, one crushed
biscuit. Back to the counter for two shot
explanations and all over strawberry blush.
Felt like marshmallow melting down the glass,
but Pat is far from ready to melt away,
and has ordered a second larger than, triple-topped,
chemo free, marshmallow, death by hot chocolate day.
Listening to Music in Enzo Café
So I conjure composers: baroque
drawing room recluses, locked out of sight,
locking out words; but this girl in docs
and jeans took flight in our café, right
by my table, gifting a tune.
The keyboard was unboxed, set alight
and as she played, she swayed, a spoon
stirring sweetness into the air. There’s me,
wanting the comfort of chords festooned
with lyrics, suddenly feeling these
patterns I don’t understand, unfold
a script in my brain, turning this coffee
and this chic Enzo bistro to one gold
moment touched by her spidery thread,
weaving stories waiting to be told.
Welcome to the drawing room she said.
Feel the prelude frothing in your head.
2008: What Mum Loves Best
In summer she is armed with chicken spears,
breaded bites and fiery turkey sticks
to feed her hungry brood. Open the beers,
the barbie sizzles. Sharp tongs take their pick.
Come winter and her life is neatly packed
with furred up festive gifts, in tempting wrappers:
furred mushroom baubles; painted tikka snacks;
samosa platters; shrimps and brandy snaps.
But best of all are chocolate strawberries dipped,
cased lipsticks, robbed from summer, boxed away
in the dark underworld of frozen dreams.
They wait to brighten up cold nights, let rip
splash out, rekindle hopes of sunny days.
Persephone, uncoated, smeared with cream.
Young Girl Eating Physalis
Today her tomorrow is orange,
not ribbed segmental hours
and pips, but as this amber shine
that doesn’t know its beauty,
a Cinderella shedding torn
petticoats to add its magic
to two scoops of pub ice cream
Her finger and thumb twizzle its stem
as if this fruit could spin her choices:
Chinese lanterns, cape gooseberries,
ground cherries, golden strawberries.
Each name occupies a different world.
She bites firmly, chews things over,
Breaks to her first orange smile.
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