August 28, 2017



Waiting in the waiting room

the chairs stick together

the walls closing.
Tart, small voices are heard next-door,
the end of the Friday night radio-show,
witticisms and innuendo
and loud, captive laughter.

Finally, applause disintegrates that room,

other strident voices are raised.


That's when she pops her head in

'hello,' she says

and you smirk


following her professional secret through the doors,

you see the light, the sofa, the long curtains,

the quiet, wide walls.

You won’t be like them,
you won’t perform.
The walls wait,
the door closes,
you shrug your shoulders
and speak of him
with the other name.

A radio plays on in the waiting room. 

From 'Exhibition People'





An Exhibition

The War Museum came of age
it was said
with an exhibition on the power of protest.

At the door
a woman from a temp agency
stands for six hours
checking tickets
at £8.50 an hour and a lunch break.

It would be bad customer service
to sit down, she was told.
You can doggy paddle,
but do not drown.

As time sheds
its grey, merciful flakes
something beats beneath.

Then, she’ll let the noose of her thoughts
settle on her neck,
feeling its strength
as she makes loops from ticket stubs.

It’s called Irony
she told wandering visitors.

From 'Exhibition People'




An Evening

I threw my net
out to evening sky.
The moon circled.

The eyes of houses,
a lost brother,
in the air.

I trailed my fingers on bricks
felt grains under my feet
followed the turns of the road.

I reached for an olive tree,
in the middle of a pond.

I heard my mother,
sing a song
and when I sought her face
I found only a black cat.


Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Please reload

  • Instagram - Black Circle
  • Facebook - Black Circle

©2017 by The New Machine (Creative Writing), United Kingdom

Text: 07534 981 636

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to the author of the piece and The New Machine with appropriate and specific direction to the original content