Suitcase Ghazal

Holiday tomorrow: I’ve got to pack.
A fortnight’s break—there’s lots to pack.

At least a dozen detective novels
Riddled with serpentine plots to pack.

Deodorants, shaving kit, mouthwash,
Tissues in case I get the snots to pack.

Paracetamol. Alka Seltzers in the event
Of too many vodka shots to pack.

Smart dress, casual dress, jeans, t-shirts,
Pyjamas, slippers—what’s not to pack?

In short, everything but the kitchen sink
And the chamber pot to pack.

…………………..*

An inner voice 200 miles from home:
“Hey, Neil, guess what you forgot to pack?”

The Fickle Muse

The apple fell on Newton’s head.
“Gravity,” Sir Isaac said.

Archimedes in the bath:
“Eureka!” as he solved the math.

Poet stares at blank white paper.
Fuckin’ nuthin’. Maybe later.

————

Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham, where he still lives and works. He has two poetry collections with Shoestring Press: No Avoiding It and Can’t Take Me Anywhere. He also co-edited the Alan Sillitoe tribute volume, More Raw Material.