Nothing of note.
I guess scrambled eggs happened.
Two cups of tea.
A walk in a back pocket.
My lid stayed put,
thank God.
Carl Burkitt 2023
My day as the pen of a poet desperately trying to keep going
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Author Archives: carltellstales
I’m just trying to write an email or maybe I’m shopping for a miniature tiramisu
and he’s there
behind the eyelids,
sucking moisture
from the bit with colour,
spitting it out down my cheeks.
Carl Burkitt 2023
My day as the umbrella of the woman walking past the pub window
As much as I enjoyed the warmth of the
armpit of her lime green raincoat –
it was humbling to not be needed
while the rain drowned her hair
like the tears did her cheeks.
Carl Burkitt 2023
Paul
Pork pie. Ale. Unfiltered. Leathered.
Powerful. Afternoon. Uncompromising. Laugh.
Pink skull. A beard. United cap. Luxury trainers.
Perky. A yawn. Uncle to strangers. Listening.
Pensive. Away with the fairies. Unsure. Leathered.
Carl Burkitt 2023
My day as a slice of bacon
I woke up cold,
but not for long. My vacuum sleeping
arrangements and close proximity to
meaty pals warmed me up, prepared me
for the transition to a pan of piping hot oil.
Lobsters scream when dropped
in boiling water, and I always assumed
that’s what the sizzle of a bacon is:
a hellish cry for help. How wrong I was.
When our bodies hit our fate,
the sizzle of my mates translated to,
We’re here, we’re here. The leader
of the pack explained it was a spitting
smoked signal, of sorts, for every human
walking past a window saying,
I can smell bacon, can you smell bacon,
where’s that bacon coming from?
© Carl Burkitt 2023
My day as a door handle in the men’s room of my local pub
It was fun guessing the mood of a hand
approaching me. I’d say the majority were
soft, focused, goal orientated. I didn’t mind
the sweaty ones, the jangly-pissed ones
needing three tries to turn me the right way.
But I longed for an aggressive one.
One that would shove me out of nowhere,
surprise me with feeling.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
A poem written by my left hand
It takes a while
but I try. It doesn’t
hurt as much as it
looks, but it does –
more than I’d admit.
It’s nice to get a
chance to show off,
to feel alive, to forget
the guy on the right.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Jumper
You are wearing my wife’s jumper –
the sage (?) green, thick rollneck
with a million white flecks like stars
across a countryside drive home –
but you are not my wife
because you are telling me
I am in your way and not looking
at me with eyes that have eardrums.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Stress lives differently
A bowl of red apples with fresh water
sliding down their round cheeks
has just been placed in front of me.
The wooden table they’re sitting on is
warm from ocean sun. A stack of side
plates, decorated with calm, silver swirls
are waiting patiently for sea swimmers
to lift their light shoulders back aboard
for a snack. My back is soft. As soft as
the cushion it’s resting against. The radio
switches itself on in broken English:
Come in. US Navy War Ship approaching.
My spine is a lighthouse. The captain
sips Turkish sweet tea, smiles at his wife
chopping potatoes.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
One and five make six
The fingers and thumb on his left hand
are up as high as his arm will let them.
His right forefinger joins them.
One and five make six, he says,
for the first time since his muscles were
given blood and his teeth discovered
they can do more than eat.
Well done, I say.
What does well done mean? he says.
I look at the hairs that have grown
out of the crown on his head,
the way they lift and bend and fall
like waves, how his eyes know
to blink when the sun gets in,
the way his skin wears the world
like a reflection.
It means good job, he interupts.
Like how one and five make six.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Carl tells tales 