In the Shed - Don Walls 2005

"Don Walls is an extremely gifted poet who deserves a national reputation.  He has a breathtaking range of work from tender lyrics to engaging narrative poems, from sharply perceptive observations of the everyday to the devastatingly funny."  Dr. Ben Harker, Biographer & Musician.

ISBN 0-9546937-1-X c. Don Walls 2005, Cover Illustration Don Walls, DEADGOOD Publications England.

Keeping a Wasp

In the jar his world is round
and the only sound
the buzz of himself
and no way out
 - frantic for footholds
frazzled hums, hunched,

so boost his esteem,
praise his stripes
 - tiger among insects,
his valour
 - flailed away, zigzag attacks,

needs to dream
so tell him stories of Shangri-la:
everything ambrosial
honey trees, nectar
 - a buzz of euphoria
brimming the jar,

and squash him a kiss,
lips on the glass.
He longs to be noticed,
indifference destroys
even hate resuscitates,
so take the lid off
shout 'shite'
 - a little aggression, he will buzz into life.


My two shoes scuffed in the shed
one beached on its side
one still afloat.
Laces - ropes of rigging, greened.

I wore you like a belief
under the stars
 - cobbles, ice.
Moorings in darkness,

and I'll you a poem
on shaping my life
in shaping yourselves to the shape of my feet,
a litany of meekness.

I woke up on morning
and whatever I touched turned to chocolate
- pins and things
fireguard, kettle
teapot glugging
clotted zip and gooey buttons
and a razor as blunt as a chocolate truffle.

Philanthropist, in the shadows
I baited muggers
then froze them hard in chocolate death
and smashed them up in waste for kids.
I am the children's chocolate saviour
- they follow me across the Ings and round the block
licking gateposts, chocolate privet
sheds, soft and wobbly in the melting sun.

I can chocolatise anything, anywhere,
but wear chocolate proof gloves
to stroke my dog
and for making love.

Gloveless once I touched a Prime Minister
Stricken in chocolate,
the crowd immediately gobbled him up.

Early in the morning and I sit at the window, coffee in my hand,
and wait for the trees to step out of the mists.

The starlings chatter
and the grasses have given up the summer struggle.
A hover-fly inspects the toadflax.

This is the time of the day I like the best
 - a leaf spinning on the dog rose,
the last snow of the Russian vine
and on the shed the architecture of the passion flower.

The Daddy Long Legs has come inside.
A heron stands at the garden's end,
going nowhere.
Don Walls, poet in York, resident poet of the Black Swan Folk Club, published poetry books, buy from Amazone, In the Shed, Down the Lane, Inside Out, Somewhere, Where Are We Now?