PARADISE FOUND
Susan Richardson
In this place
my suitcase full of future plans
stays unpacked on the sand.
Decisions to move on wither
or hang like soft tomatoes
swallowing the sun.
The languid sea
casts a come-hither glance at me.
I slip on the red shoes of sunset -
and dance.
MY KNEES
Susan Richardson
- are clowns.
Shambling,
accident-prone,
bumping into things
and each other.
- are seasonal.
Bulbous,
hesitant,
they inch their way out of winter,
ripen slowly in the sun.
- are good sports.
Squash them flat
to scrub a floor,
they shrug their sagging skin.
- are best friends.
Side by side,
they kiss.
LETTER HOME
Susan Richardson
I miss the early-rising sky
which only shuts its bloodshot eye
after nineteen hours alert, unblinking.
I miss badgers, dormice, moles
and other shylife.
I miss fog that’s yoghurt-white,
breath like ghostly bubblegum.
I miss the non-abusive sun
which fondles without bruising.
I miss dew.
RESOLUTION
Susan Richardson
This year
I’d like to kiss
something other
than the back of my own hand
and I’d like to call
someone other
than my dog
honey-bun-sugar-plum-pie.
I’d also like
to sprout pink wings
and learn to fly.
BAD HABITS
Susan Richardson
I polish the bedroom mirror.
I make sure I change the sheets
three times a week
or more.
I smile too much for no reason.
I buy mangoes at extortionate prices
out of season.
I get jealous when a waitress makes you tea.
(I bet she doesn’t brew it as well as me.)
I listen to Andrew Lloyd-Webber.
I know all the words of his songs -
a heinous crime.
I write too many poems
that rhyme.
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