Today at the Treacle Market and Wednesday at Bad Language, Manchester + a Drabble or two (The Spider In The Bath and Incident)

It’s Treacle Market day here in Macclesfield and Margaret Holbrook, Charlie Heathcote and myself are in King Edward’s Street chapel from 10 am using the “Rent-A-Pew” scheme to publicise, and perhaps sell, a few of our books (singular for Charlie and me and plural for Margaret). Come along and have a browse if you can,

On Wednesday, 28th. October, I’ve a 4 minute open mike slot at “Bad Language”, Manchester’s monthly literary event at the Castle Pub, 66, Oldham Street at 7-30 pm. It gets packed so come along early for a seat. It’s been difficult to decide what to do in the slot. I’ve settled on a skit on the late, great Ian Dury’s “Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick”, a poem I wrote when I reached the age my Dad was when he died (“70+ or The Clock”) and something from “Eric Bloodaxe? And Other Verse”, perhaps “Jodrell Bank” or “Wistful Twister”. “70+ or The Clock” happens to be a Drabble: a poem or story in exactly 100 words excluding the title.

Macc Writers is putting together a collection of 100 Drabbles with the aim of raising money for the Bridgend Centre, Bollington and another charity, yet to be decided.  Here are a couple of poem Drabbles I’ve submitted :-

The Spider In The Bath

What does it live on, the spider in the bath?

It’s not a great place for flies to cross its path,

yet it’s fit and healthy and obviously clean,

roams end to end its vast domain from what I’ve seen.

There’s no sign of woven web between the taps.

Is it that it hasn’t spinnerets perhaps?

Every ploy it uses of arachnid guile

to coax all its nutrients out of bathroom tile,

but when it’s time for me to soak away the gunge,

Incey Wincey’s there, so I can’t take the plunge,

unless ………. I might just de-spider with the sponge!

Incident

11 o’clock and all’s not well.

A pulsating blue floods the hallway

as I go to put out the bins,

part of the weekly domestic ritual.

A fire engine is blinking a warning and the road is closed.

From a car’s gaping bonnet, dense smoke

is rising towards the clear night sky,

where Perseid meteor showers are due.

I’ll miss these as I did the windscreen scattering its razor sharp confetti.

and the flames which roasted the neighbours’ shrubs.

A lone figure, helmet and visor in place douses, observed from a distance.

Overhead, ephemeral streaks of space debris pass unseen.

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