Richard Wink

eight poems

The meek and the Mavericks

Again he is distracted
by the swifts that boom from the blue
zig zagging skyward
ducking and diving
like spitfires and hurricanes

he walks a deserted path
looking down to make sure the muck doesn’t ruin his white jeans.
He feels unsettled and lets out a forced cough
to dislodge the silence

Starry eyed architects seem to imagine the world better
buildings spring up suddenly
forming a new landscape along the horizon
this city panics as its history fades
the historic walls have now eroded
to a few clumps
that we walk past each day


I walked through the bakery
past the many loaves cooling off on the strong iron racks.
I drove past the bakery twice
navigating through the green twisting lanes
and the cradle bridge
that crossed the wide stream

Now I am here
a couple of women
wearing old fashioned aprons and white hair nets gossip in the corner
one of them, the doughier of the two
takes me through to the office.
The lady in the office sitting on a swivel chair is nearing retirement age
she takes down my details, working history
and financial particulars.
She then offers me a cup of coffee
I accept
white, two sugars.
I sat down on a wooden bench parked in the narrow hallway
watching a wasp knock against the window
trying to escape

Black and Grey Hair

Bursting blue frame
smiling concrete face
plummeting liquid features
squeezing a ripe lemon into a butter smeared pan.
Intense street boy
carving his blade over a smooth cheek
budding bright geisha
in the garden
singing to the satellites


Next door
an old miser
is struggling
his kidneys imploding
bottle by his side
resting on the foo-ton
lost burning embers
open mouthed
and horrid


“I can do what I want for Christ’s sakes”
Why can’t you be quiet?

tempers and flailing arms
the moisture soon goes
from the mouth that knows it all

the thing about relationships
is that if you go by what you see
then really you will never know the other

perhaps that’s why I’m single

meandering precisely and politely
pretending my libido is not even inside me
I pretend to be liberated
even though these strings are wound
so tightly

SKY News

a news report flashes
‘Burma Conflict’
and I think about what I should have for tea tonight

caring is something you have to be able to afford
I think it is impossible to be charitable
when you eating super noodles on a Friday night

the story on the news has just changed
some kid in a big city got murdered over a gold chain
I wish I was making that up

a public man’s private life

I stole a yellow ball from a pool table
and rolled it across the road
it went beneath the wheels
of a dozen speeding cars

heaven smelt like a pair of smoky jeans
left in the bottom of a wardrobe

hell bored me,
it was dry
and always beneath me

destroying the 145
happened in the seventies,
happened in the eighties,
happened in the nineties,

destruction hasn’t happened yet


red brick soul
burning muck
unbelievable explanations
lackey talk in train stations
the smell of steak bake

Hammersmith headaches
swigs and swoons
ticket stubs
and sticky unknown substances
that ruin your converse

one page blood signed
Amber interrupts
following a fly
through the dark tunnel
a train bullets past
creating a refreshing gust

posh restaurant

sparrow heads
porcupine eyes
bludgeoned slabs of medium rare
garnished plates
the sprinkle of herbs

the freshness of mint
a puzzled lament,


when the menu arrives
the only thing you can identify is the wine list

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