Category Archives: nostalgia

School Feeding Pts 1 & 2- un-formatted




The bell’s gone. We are wide-mouthed frogs, riveted like cracked open birds waiting for worms.


Stand in line. Wait your turn.







A boy’s socks fall down while standing upright.  It’s my itchy thick tights that go south. My mouth waters. We inch forward.




Will there be custard? Mysterious pudding lurks beneath. Make no sudden moves.


Being served from the hatch where the dinner ladies skulk takes its toll. More than one child this term has lost control of a bladder.


You wonder, will there be bread rolls today or squishy buttered Wonderloaf. Bread’s the best bit.


I hate gravy i hate gravy i hate gravy i hate gravy i hate gravy. Lumpy


Big boys pull my pigtails. They pick their own scabs and eat them. Big boys laughs. What does this mean?





Hunger is constant, factually. Something pure in the strange world of the dinner hall. I am very small.










Change of continents entails change of lunch habits. It’s not even called dinner here.


Crack open a window, Let the heat out, matey. It won’t go. Lumpy


Hey you, pinkie, say sommat. ( pause for laughter) Are ya Pommie or sommat? Ya gotta be kiddin’.


Drones on. The teacher. The flies. The booming swells of air that’re as solid as the sweaty upper lips and arm pits of kids.


It’s clear I only remember summer dinners. They were perhaps the hottest. 1976 was the longest.






I’m shameless in my envy. Clots to the colour of thick meaty gravy.


How we stay friends when she gets her name scrawled on a greasy paper-bagged tuck-shop order, I’ll always wonder. She sinks her tiny teeth in. I get none. Hoarder


i must not swear. i must not swear i must not swear i must now swear








The smells of Balfour’s piespastiessausagerolls wafts in form the corridor. Enters the stifling classroom, bows, lift up out of the crates, breaks my heart, makes me levitate.


My package of sandwiches (fritz and sauce), sits limp, squashed, tepid at the bottom of my school bag. I hunt them out with foetid fingers when the bell goes off.


Released into the quadrangle, we squabble over frozen Farmer’s Union iced coffee. Vying for a lick, it is eaten granita stylie before my envious eyes and dried up lips.


Seagulls circle overhead, gawping, squarking, diving bins. My stomach gnaws.


April 9 2020



P-s Why won’t WordPress accept my formatting!!!??? aargh!

Glopowrimo / Napowrimo 2020

Day 9.- Today’s resource is Kirsten Kaschock’s chapbook, Windowboxing. Kaschock, a dancer as well as a poet, titles her poems using neologisms or portmanteaus, and each one proceeds as a series of essay-like sentences. The poems are interspersed with drawings, and some are even formatted in the shapes of boxes, forcing the reader to turn the book (or their head) and engage with the poems as they move through space.

Our prompt for the day (optional as always) is inspired by Kaschock’s use of space to organize her poems. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a “concrete” poem – a poem in which the lines and words are organized to take a shape that reflects in some way the theme of the poem. This might seem like a very modernist idea, but poets have been writing concrete poems since the 1600s! Your poem can take a simple shape, like a box or ball, or maybe you’ll have fun trying something more elaborate, like this poem in the shape of a Christmas tree.

cookies & milk

hey ! brother !

can you tell me how to get to

that seedy street where everything’s a-ok?


can you sell me some of that

stuff, sister?

you know it, baby

little flakes of manna you wanna

lick up with a chaser of the milka

some kinda kinder, honey


i’m a bit disoriented by this, i’ll admit


this place looks familiar, but something’s different

in the air

it’s clearer out there

there’re big birds singing all yellow and feathery

no engine noises no dull roars no debris


i’m 3 shirts to the wind, 1001 nights away

from any open sesaming, hanging out to dry

flat carpeted, mate!


can you pin-point my location if i point at it?

wifi’s down, there’s no connection, just distance


looking up there’s nothing

no planes, no Supermans, no reds, whites or  blues

coming through


i’m untethered by this, i’ll admit


to looking for signs on the ground

ears pressed to the hard splatts of gum

tacked to the pavement fag ends crumpled tickets, dirt

refuse collected as maps to the future of man


in the gutter



mother! hey!

i’m lost

where the hell are ya?

under my feet?



listen, she yells

a waft of silence follows


i guess i’ll have to find my own way

in the aftermath of this


can i go out to play?

will there be milk and cookies after this, mom?

a sandwich or crisps

some for every brother?

in answer

a gentle hum comes


Day 2:-and asks you to write a poem about a specific place —  a particular house or store or school or office.

Glopowrimo / Napowrimo 2020