It's the Tattered End of Autumn
It’s the tattered end of autumn,
when the beech tree’s yellow dress
has rusted
and a thick carpet
of mustard
lies rotting underfoot.
It’s the tattered end of autumn,
when the white bones of the birch
are exposed
and its last leaves
cling
like baby koalas.
It’s the tattered end of autumn
when single leaves
dance solos
and next door’s blower
disturbs
the stillness of mid afternoon.
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poem by Alison Cassidy
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Miss Jones
Her lower jaw
(a class three, my dentist father
would have termed it)
jutted forward pugnaciously.
He hair hung limp,
pinned at the side.
Her body hunched crab-like
(probably osteoporosis) .
She wore cream blouses,
stout shoes
and a cardigan
when it was cold.
She adored Mr. Cuthbertson
(head of radio drama)
with the fierce passion
of a lonely spinster.
She fussed over his tea,
typed his memos lovingly.
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poem by Alison Cassidy
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I Love Red
RED balloon
floating through frames
of Thirties celluloid
dusty RED
dreamtime
black feet dancing
rhode island RED
bustling scratchily
in the poo speckled straw
RED back
hiding in the cupboard
spinning her web
marxist RED
hiding under the bed
spinning in the Fifties
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poem by Alison Cassidy
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A Nonsense Poem - a Villanelle
A little mouse sings in a bowl
A little fish runs on a wheel
A little worm hops in a hole
A little hat has lost its sole
A little petal has no peel
A little mouse sings in a bowl
A little dog dances a reel
A little frog jumps on a mole
A little fish runs on a wheel
A little boat rings out a peal
A little bell loses its keel
A little mouse sings in a bowl
A little rock slips on a seal
A little perch walks on a pole
A little fish runs on a wheel
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poem by Alison Cassidy
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Looking Glass Reflections
When I was a child
the glass on the wall
was a mirror of me.
I put on faces and hats
and spent hours imagining
When I was thirteen
I hated the mirror,
for it showed me
the spots on my face
I spent hours attempting to cover.
When I was twenty
I would look in the mirror
and create each new face
that appeared on the stage
for the evening performance.
When I was a mother
I sat with my daughter
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poem by Alison Cassidy
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Sugar Daddy
And they stood in the waves -
he with his camera,
she without her clothes,
nervous and shivery -
but determined
to play it cool.
The pics were ordinary,
nothing out of the box,
but she kept them
and forty years later
one adorns her lover’s study door
with others of his mates,
dearly departed mostly
(so many of them too) .
He was her mentor,
brilliant and irritatingly obsessed
with his work and her.
He taught her much.
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poem by Alison Cassidy
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