Sorry Box ***(favourite)

You smiled. 
It probably wasn’t at me but
i stole it home to lock it away
for better or worse.

I shook your smile till it turned from me,
tucked it up ever so gently 
and placed it, cracked up and withered 
in my sorry box.

You cried.
It probably wasn’t over me
but i took the credit for your tears,
consoling them with
every sweet notion i could dream up,
i only used words'd be a breeze to clean up...

...but your sorrow was
too deep for my sorry box...
so i hung it out to dry for a time...
with all my fears
and any other frightful things
that came to mind.

When done,
i pressed out the creases
(in truth, too few to mention)
and hung up my glory
with the rest of those outfits in our closet.

You roared.

Yes, it was at me.
With a poignant shout
i clapped you about
and despite the pain
we struggled on hoarsely -
i dragged you in,
postrate but raging all the way,
to my sorry box where...

...i slipped out a smile
and the rest of that darling stuff...
left them eye-balling one to the other,
grace to disgrace.

In time, they embraced
with outstretched pride,
joined hearts
and skipped on side by side
to come in search of me
and my weapons.

You looked.
It was to me.
It was simple
and sweet.
I forget who seduced who
but i wear that look on my cheek
for all to see and
my sorry box
is empty.

© Rebecca Rennie 2000

Authenticity

you are alone for two days

so you call yourself a loner now

you are too sick to smoke this morning so

you say you’ve given up

you call a cow by her first name

take a photo of a horse and

call yourself a country boy

you stretch once against a tree 

so now you’re a tree-hugger?

you breathed in very deeply two months ago and 
say you meditate regularly

that book i gave you, lies unopened but

you do love coffee tables and

if you know the title and 
you spill a drink on it

at least it looks well read

you are many things

great and wonderful
cover to cover

so why pretend to be all other?

i see through the film strip
and transparent impressions

you boil some pasta so

suddenly you cook

but you still don’t know the 
difference between a

chilli and a pepper nor

what to do with a bay leaf

and the only thing you know how to bake

is time

if you are as bored by your own company

as you say you are

then you are possibly boring

if you are not interested in other stories

nor really listening to the world

nor traveling

nor caring to cook for your mum

nor picking up a new sport

nor opening your mind to horses, skiing

reading the newspaper front to back

(even the business section, just once as a joke)...

reading biographies

buying literature in another language

planting something in a garden

rearranging your ugly furniture

donating clothes to charity (if they would take them)

then what can i say?

i say

do some volunteer work at xmas 
in a soup kitchen

just for sheer joy of it

and don’t tell anyone

give up smoking 
and see what happens

but don’t tell anyone

the thing about loners is

they don’t notice they are alone

please stop telling me 
what a loner you have become

in the hope that I will 
come over to take a look and

keep you company


please stop telling me stuff

  

© 2010 Rennie

Thinking Big ****

All her horses are named Athena

but for the one with the wounded leg

Sandy, she calls her, little horse Sandy.

Sandy’s made of felt, she is sad as can be

“Little horse, take your tonic

then come play with me.”

Truffles is a cat, with one missing glove

her eyes glow at night

and she wears a top hat.

There’s a missing spout on Teapot

so we fill her up slow

we feed the butterflies

on tissue trays and candle wax.

What’s your favourite bus route

of 600 that you know?

“The whole world” tangents Charlie.

...the darndest things indeed...
so too

the swan on the water

does it with such grace

that you can never see her paddling like hell

beneath the surface.

© 2010 R. Rennie

Inspired by Graeme Robertson Guardian article p 21 Mag. Sat 15 May

That Star

he’s a tad rocknroll

and cheeky as hell

not full bent on leather

but ringing a bell

he fills it up singing

to the top and it’s slow

poetry in motion

he’s a kite you let go

shall i wish upon him?

like some morning star

or is he just a comet?       

wonder mister what the hell you are

© April 2010 Rennie

Clochard ***(favourite)

i am king of this town, dont you know

poetry tracks me down

no matter where i go

i get hunted by words and

shot down by lines

i just open my mouth and let fly

i met rembrandt

some time past and

the new year saw me swinging from

chandeliers in Venetian glass

now that was many years ago

true to say, my heyday’s passed

Pablo still writes me all the time

and Vincent is a friend of mine

it’s a cushy life but i’m always on the move

i sleep around, in any groove

you know the rumours are all true

that once upon a carousel

i knew M. Lisa very well

i blew my fancy flute that way

my chariot has one dud wheel

it still gets all my stuff around

you’d be surprised how it still rolls

with all the things i’ve found piled up in it

© 2009 Rebecca Rennie

Mermaid on the Continent

The rose-water orchid bearer

Is doing all he can

To fill your world with oceans enough

To make up the distance between you

But there you lie

Naked and soft on the hard, dry ground

With your ear cupped, 
You listen hard but

Songs dry up on the continent

Yet she still remains your heroine,

Stuck there and utterly put upon as she is

With her history of border wars 
And socialized concrete walls

Her soul stale, 
Her poetry panic-stricken

It’s no wonder

She loses all reason

It is only the sea

You yearn
You must forgive her that

Still, if only she had a sea, then

You’d raise a naval fleet

Especially for her

You’d have the muse at 
Both your feet in no time flat

And in her name
You cry out to no-where in particular...

...If only the sea

© Rennie 2008

Strange Texts

strange message

are u executing me? in text?

the gossip mongers on the corner

they too have so much

to talk about.

phones phones.

just becase u’re the

birthday girl darlin’

that don’t mean u

got the right to

spit on my night

… my song

punishin' me

just a wee bit?

for my own good perhaps?

go right ahead

im not fallin’ for the tricks

you play.  

im too hard

im too bold

and u don’t get me

any more.

i think u’re missing the point

in any case

where do i stand?

i hear you asking

how do i stand it?

that’s the question

when you are constantly

pressing me me over

and out

© Rebecca Rennie 2008