Annie Ziyah Attacks

Annie Ziyah would drink tea

but wrings her hands incessantly.

Hunched and bunched and bundled in her cardigan

she is the plague of panicked whispers behind pleasant conversation.

She is “what if?”; “what then?”; “this could go wrong!”

She is the worst conclusion jumped to

with a wheedle extra strong.

Eyebrows arcing over horn-rimmed lenses

Salt and pepper ‘do resembling avian garden fences

This sorceress of scandal wields her spells with devastating zeal:

Raising pulses, stealing breath,

 clothing stained by seeping sweat,

memories wiped, voices silenced

over-ridden by ‘boom-boom-boom’.

her gristly grip gets hold.

You feel the suffocating room

close in around you and as the blackness swells-

you’re overwhelmed

Annie Ziyah sips her tea,

dips eyebrows momentarily

then raises them, a new disaster hatched.

She’s ready to fight the next match.

Cheesecake: The Prequel

Wake up, late.

Dry mouth.

Morning after the house warming party before state

and yawning, stretch.

Slight retch

at tequila backwash acid.

Heavy lids

downstairs skid

past poltergeist pong of

overnight guests’ evacuations

exposing pot pourri’s limitations

and push open kitchen door.

Thirsty.

Detritus of guests

abandoned cups,

abandoned hats

for poetry and otherwise

plates on sides.

Kettle on: click

then the comforting promise of

pkchkchkchkchkchkch

as dry lips are licked in anticipation

of culmination

of delayed gratification.

Made three days previous

(and left out too long) grievous

sin to waste it though,

Too good to throw away.

Chocolate sprinkles, biscuit base,

New York style. The last piece placed

back on the shelf

in the fridge by itself

next to orange juice. Healthy.

A hangover cure.

Oh blessed breakfast, mon amour!

I reach for fridge door

stand on sticky spiky tines.

Raspy swearing cough

and hop

and hold my toe as I

sideways go

and fall against spillage stained sideboard.

Who would leave a fork on the floor

next to the fridge?

Grumpily slump

retrieve fork from floor

and squint.

What’s that?

Between tobacco stained finger and chipped painted thumb?

A crumb.

Suspicion aroused

fridge door open flung

 to reveal:

Someone’s eaten my cheesecake!

                                                                                                                                         

My good friend Bill Strutt wrote a poem about cheesecake which is often requested and always performed with great aplomb. I wrote this in his style, in tribute to all the fantastic work he does to introduce poetry to people on a daily basis.

 Bill has a great, deep growly voice which lends itself to characterisation, storytelling and the gift of the gab. An incorrigible poetry pusher, he can often be found performing at different events and open mics across the island. I urge you to experience his skill.