Pretty Pink

Image result for sparkly pink kids shoes

I was majorly excited when my poem Pretty Pink was chosen to be released on Spoken Label on bandcamp. When I received the email telling me it had been accepted I got that feeling like it Christmas when I was a child. Anyway, as I have now started this blog I thought, well, why not share it on here? So, for anyone who might be interested in spending just 20 minutes listening to this recording, including backing music, of what I believe (well I hope anyway) is a truly moving  piece of poetry please just click on the link below.

https://spokenlabel.bandcamp.com/album/jacqueline-phillips-pretty-in-pink-3

 

Small Kitchen

Dancing whispered fear, she carefully choreographed

his evening meal, heart fluttering like a wounded sparrow

 

as the beat of his feet ground his presence to her consciousness.

Contrary to Pavlov’s dog, the lazy metronome of his breathing, in

 

then out, spawned a psychic desert. Her well-worn footwork

and gestures remained instinctive as he sang once again

 

his favourite song. She followed his lead, the subtle signs giving

encouragement of her subservience which she plated

 

and served to him with a side order of prayer. His appetite increased

as he feasted and though she fed him the entirety of her independence

 

he craved more. With mismatched souls at counterpoint

his swaggering presentation cowed her naked melody,

 

stilled her perfect timing. This small kitchen setting, was

stage made for a ubiquitous, repeat performance of

 

his potent unrestraint.

Apple Trees

Born at the age of six in a somewhat confused state

I snapped the branches from my father’s young apple tree.

He sent me to bed. I never did understand why.

My father was clever, a high achiever by anyone’s standards

but he was unable to read me. I used this failing. I still do.

Guilting him into overlooking my own deficiencies.

My mother was my father’s armour although

she believed it the reverse and she thought me like herself.

She was wrong and she was right as mothers often are.

My parents were Salford; city pavements and hard graft.

I was small Lancashire village; country lanes and rolling hills.

We met somewhere in the suburbs and shared our discontent.

 

I am not sure when I became myself, sometime in my twenties,

or at least that’s what I would guess. A slow awakening,

that’s for sure. I found a lost soul in a small terraced house,

we planted seeds together and grew three children.

I poked them with a stick and I fed them. I often wonder

why I was so surprised, when they in their turn broke branches.