Rupert Loydell

Aroma Fatigue

Words make no sense
We've an abundance
of small satisfactions
face-centred moments
temporary cleavage failure

Maximum acceptable fledglings
new in the father's brood
The earth has mixed up
texts and memories together
Leave well alone

The girl is past her youth
seeks something noncommital
Nonstressed components
magnitude and phase
Now winter comes along

Dreams of fire and light
transparent distribution
a little tinder on the coals
Clears his fields this spring
close to confidence

The moment arrives
like climbing up a slide
A voice whispers in his ear
The more rapid the quench
the more makeshift diffusion

Torchlight dislocation
pearlite reaction
Fears what he cannot see
Her teeth, her tongue
the hardness of the apple

You live in a magic garden

Toad of Toad Hughes

Toad's Secret History

In the beginning was croak.
And croak begat splash
and splash begat ripple
and ripple begat wave.

'Toads can't wave' thought Toad
and shed a baleful tear.

And wave begat waving back.
And waving back begat smile
and smile begat friendship
and friendship begat romance,
a couple walking by the lake.

'Ugh, a horrid toad' said one.

'I wasn't waving at you'
croaked Toad in the mud.

Car Hire

'Poop Poop' said Toad.

'You'll never drive with those
webbed feet', said God.

The Nature of Things

Toad sat on his lily pad
and looked at the world.
It made no sense to him,
this mess of mud and water,
floating green islands to sit on.

A fish swam past, a bird
flew by, something rustled
in the grass. Toad trembled
with the wonder of it all,
then flicked out his tongue

and swallowed a fly.
[I don't know why]

Sound Poetry

'Poop Poop' said Toad.

'Call that poetry?' said God.

Swim Something Simple

Toad basked in the sunshine,
then decided to cool off,
go for a swim. He flexed
his muscles and dived in.

The water was delightful,
embraced him like a womb.
He pushed against the current
as though revisiting his birth

swimming toward the light,
toward new life, the river bank,
exiting the eternal flow of nature
between the thighs of creation.

'I'm pooped', said Toad.
'You're not the only one',
snapped God from his lounger.
'And who taught you to swim?'

What A Mess

'Poop Poop' said Toad.

'Clear it up', said God.


Toad became Poet Laureate,
with a pond of his own at the palace,
his very own royal aquarium,
and breakfast every morning.
But it didn't seem the same.

They gave him his very own
servant, to wipe off the slime
and keep him looking nice.
But he missed his own stink
the mud drying on his back.

He could croak exactly what he liked
as long as it didn't mention tadpoles
or spawn, as long as it was approved
by the committee and didn't
say anything important or rude.

Toad longed for fresh flies,
to flick out his tongue, dribble
into his chins and wallow in ooze.
He was at the peak of his fame
but it was nothing to crow about.

Final Poem

'Poop Poop' said Toad.

'Get a life', said God.
'Oh sorry, too late.'

'Delicious', said Crow.

© Rupert M Loydell

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