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The Web Poetry Corner

Simon Foster


London, England, UK

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Deckchairs in my garden


Simon Foster

There are four deck chairs sat in my garden
They're locked in discussion, using the jargon
That's common to chairs left in the garden

They were put out to sit on two weeks ago
In the hot summer sun with the barbie aglow
But the skies gathered up in darkness and grey
And waited and rose and then had their say

Since then its rained and it's rained and it's poured
But no one's bothered to bring them indoors
So they sit in a circle and patiently wait
Facing eachother as if locked in debate

Nine out of ten


Simon Foster

Nine is nine and it's one less than ten
It's less than I need and lower than them
I'm looking for more but I haven't much time
But I don't want to close on that number nine

If I'd stopped a little earlier and left it at eight
The distance from ten would have forced me to wait
But now I'm at nine and the clock is at twelve
I have no choice but to dig deep and delve

And now here I am with my ten out of ten
That magical mystery, that poetical zen
A little push and I had to work harder
But now we've got ten I can make for the larder.

Afreeka - The Kill


Simon Foster

Dust, speed,
Stretch, leap,
Pure evolution-
Is alive and well and coming in for the kill,
A sixty mph, high speed flying tackle.

White pearl tooth, jaw-locked canine flesh cutter,
The pointed proceeds of a millennium of super-shaping,
Makes the rip and tears deep into the red hot muscle weave.

Watch for a moment,
Feel the time of dying.

The killer hangs still and silent from the neck,
Pulling her down to the hot earth,
Their connection is so intimate, but not so sexual;
Two pounding hearts, one dust-filled death.

The blue-black marble eye knows what's coming next,
The soft, precious orb rolls lazily in its socket,
Seeing only two things:
The upturned ocean of blue, blue sky
And the certain, certain colour of surrender.

Soft warm life systems begin their final shutdown,
While place knowing scavengers stay away from the fracas,
This is premier league, top of the table, first-place killing.

She rebels with a last ungrounded repellant,
Propellant, super bulk carrying hard ass-kick,
But finds only turbulent dust-filled air to connect.

That kick-
The first thing she ever did,
To break out of the liquid mammalian sack,
Her first bold move is now her last.
That kick was her hello and now says goodbye,
Her last breath is an empty welcome to safer world.

Magical summer


Simon Foster

Wrapt within warm monastic stone, I embraced you
As the still cool-warm air bore heaven scents of summer
Under the bright light of midnight's white moon,
I left this world and, for a better moment, entered the next

When you love her,
She is frail in your arms
When you love her
You fear nothing more
Than her in harm

Mercian Kings lay beneath us
As their forbears lay before them
A palimpsest of forgotten Royals.
We chased a changing new life,
Freshness filled the summer air
And came to life with new love.

When you love her
She is frail in your arms
When you love her
You fear nothing more
Than her in harm

Summer Rainstorm


Simon Foster

While the summer rain hammers down,
Returning lushness to our crisp-dried gardens,
It forms a clearwater sludge,
That slides slowly down over my window.

One clear moving liquid on top of another,
Only at different speeds like Airfix platetectonics.
The water moves faster than the glass,
And so runs down and smoothly over it.

Two liquids on a different journey,
This visual slip-slide of water on my window
Is been given an aural accompliament -
The Howitzers at Vimy Ridge.

The air is filled with columns of water
Driven hard downwards
Like pencils being pushed
With a sexual smoothness
Into the acid tripper's eyes.

There is a long light coming in
From the North West,
Creeping under the edge
Of this water vapour mushroom,
It rests upon the leaves
And wet branches, like pure snow.

The slate roofs and dormer windows catch this too
And throw it over to me
Like a piercing bullet of light.
If I stared at it long enough,
It could incise itself onto my retina
Like a branding iron
Leaving its mark forever in my eye.

Bus ticket


Simon Foster

Bus ticket
Crumpled record
At joureys end
But never a better friend
When the Inspector boards.

Was mine right,
When I came aboard?
Another face in
The scrambling hoard

Fare stage
Fair played
You're OK
You've paid your way,
Have a nice day,
The Inspector says

Death boat to heaven


Simon Foster

The hollowed out trunk will be your death-boat to heaven
Or Hell
Depending on how good you were thought to be in this life
Did you pass the test of your time's morals?

Yours could be a rocky ride; there's no keel and a rounded bottom,
A bobbin to toss in the waves
Not much sea-science in the age of the adze.

Was your life an easy ride or did you have to drive it?
Was it a Winter-life
Of pain, hardship, famine and plague?
Or a Summer-life
Of riches, jewels, land, harvests, friendships and feasts?

Where are you now in your death-boat?
Are you looking down on us knowingly
Drinking humour from the uncertainty of our habitation?

Were you an Old Soul even then?
Knowing more than us about the mysteries of Life
And Death?
Do you live again and again,
Around me?
If you do,
I want you,
I love you.

Who is?


Simon Foster

My heart's healer
My soul stealer
My card dealer
My loss leader
My school leaver
My bright breezer
My guy's geezer
My heart's fever?

Givers of Joy


Simon Foster

The phone will ring and I'll think it's you
But I'll get there and it's nothing new
The same old questions, same old queries
No new answers, thoughts or thoeries

'Scuse me while I mix these golden toys
These brilliant words and givers of joy
I know the rhymes are reading trite
But the pace and power is feeling right

I get my kicks by playing with fire
And finding words that build my pyre

I'll keep these lines for many years
And bring them out when I'm fighting fears
Of folding skin and drying tears
Denying all as my D-Day nears.

Every Sunday


Simon Foster

Every Sunday
I'll drop a few lines
A wee witty ditty
To pass by the time.

A snort in the morning
A tipple at brunch
This little posion
Is my Sunday lunch.

Our Streets of London


Simon Foster

Poor battered beggar, stuck in your sack
Poor battered beggar, muck in your mack
Poor battered beggar, holes in your soul
Poor battered beggar, where do you go?

Lost little child, alone in your home
Lost little child, stoned on your own
Lost little child, no brother or mother
Lost little child, where do you go?

Our streets of London, our streets of shame
It's our conundrum, we're all to blame
Picadillys and puddings, theartreland and lanes
They're our streets of London and our streets of shame.

City Centre


Simon Foster

First rhythmic composition, aged 10

Cars going, lorries tipping
Babies crying, people sitting,
People here, people there,
Everything, everywhere.
Cars hooting, dogs barking,
Buses sqeaking, children screaming,
Doors banging, signs hanging,
Are oplanes roaring overhead,
People dropping all their shopping.
Suddenly everwhere is quietening,
Everyone has gone home for tea,
City Centre closing down,
Now it is a quiet town,
Street lights on,
The City Centre, quiet for once.