Everyday Poetry

I've recently had the awkward pleasure of watching my daughter unwrap her birthday presents via the magic of a Facebook portal. It's really like having her in the room with us,  even though she is hundreds of miles away.  It reminded me of how she hates being watched while she opens her presents.  This is another one for you, Jen.   My daughter isn't good at accepting compliments: She demurs,  confused,  embarrassed at being praised Brushing them off quickly,  wishing only to step out of the limelight. It's the same story with opening presents: She hesitates, prevaricates, distracts the giver with aimless chat, Wanting the surprise to be over, normality to resume.  I could blame my parents, who every Christmas, Would sit us in a circle in their front room Making each of us open our presents in turn While everyone's eyes were on us,  waiting for the response: Did we like it,  were we happy, was it a good choice?  We were the sta...

I think this one came from my love of Brian Bilston's poems,  which often play with puns.  It became obvious As soon as she stepped onto the apparently firm ice That it was clearly see-through,  Dangerously thin, insubstantial,  An accident waiting to happen.  Transparently so.   © Copyright 2021. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved  

I'm getting to the end of our fabulous beetroot harvest,  just a few plants remain snug in their bed,  waiting to be forked up and roasted to accompany Christmas dinners. This week I've been boiling some to use in salads and sandwiches.  It's safe to assume I'm a bit of a fan of this humble root vegetable.   The kitchen fills with their aroma, Earthy, redolent of the dark soil  They were nurtured in  From seed to garnet globe.  Sized from ping-pong to tennis ball, Roots shaken free of clinging dirt,  Carefully trimmed to keep from bleeding, They jostle in the pan's roiling water.  When their woody hearts yield to the fork Their drab skin will be rubbed away,  Revealing glossy ruby velvet hearts,  As blood red water swirls down the drain.  © Copyright 2021. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved