Jack@customerservice.com

 

I wonder who came up with the idea

to call the first responder@customer service Jack?

I mean it could have been Sophie

or Emmet or Deepak or Rahul

answering my query

but it's, or is it?

colloquial, relatable, friendly Jack,

(if I discard connotations

like The Ripper, or The Lad.)

And so I've been baring my online purchasing issues

with a customer service initiative.

If only I hadn't been so chatty, intimate almost,

declaring myself a technophobe 

and nearly apologising for it.

For it's just occurred to me

that given Jack's prompt efficiency,

almost instantaneous responses,

that he/she/it

may well be a bot.

And where's the box it can tick to verify that?

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

Keeping Time

 

A bird is tapping on the chimney cowl

installed recently to prevent

said birdy and its pals from descent

into the burning flames of eternity.

Its beat strikes alternate time with the clock

ticking on the mantle piece

recently introduced to act as metronome

for  my daily floor exercises

also recently embarked upon

to stay my journey to the afterworld.

Tick Tock Tick the bird and clock

in duo seem to call,

my very own cuckoo clock,

but heralding every second

and not just the hours,

a reminder of the relentless passage

of time and the need for me to persist

with building bridges, tilting pelvis

and, if I can manage it,

a one legged squat.

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

Haikus

 

I recently attended a workshop on prose poetry, flash fiction and Haiku with the renowned Irish poet John W Sexton. The Haiku part caught my attention and has set me looking for flash inspiration ever since. John's take on this Japanese form is that it has been misunderstood and we can forget about the 5/7/5 syllable rule, which is great as it allows more freedom. 9-17 syllables will suffice in one line, two or three.

Some Background

Haiku started out as a popular activity called “Tanka."  during the 9th to 12th centuries in Japan.

A Tanka was a progressive poem.

The first poet gave a 5-7-5 mora verse, 

the second a 7-7 mora verse 

and on it went.

(a mora is similar to a syllable but not the same- hence the misunderstanding I referred to above.)

The hokku was the name given to the first verse that set the mood for the rest.

It came into its own in the 19th century when hokkus were written and read for their own sake.

The three masters of “hokku” from the 17th century were Basho, Issa, and Buson. 

                                          *****

The theme of Haikus was traditionally Nature but Love crept in as a permissible subject.

A haiku is made up of a fragment and a phrase. Here are some I wrote after doing the workshop.

clothes horse in the garden (fragment)

pegging down the sun (phrase)

mountains on the horizon

upholding the clouds

treetops on fire

morning sun rising

her spirit

sunshine breaking through cloud

They are fun to write and also hone our descriptive writing skills. 

Enjoy

Still on the subject of revision- Shorten that poem

 

Preparing a new volume of poems I am revisiting the old ones, many published on the blog. The Butter Road is one of these. It's not always a question of just shortening the poem but sometimes it is!

THE BUTTER ROAD

 

I'd say the road hasn't changed much two centuries on, 

still mossy- stoned underfoot, the ponies hooves must have sank 

in the ruts like ours, booted and sandal shod. I warned him 

about the terrain but he's fond of the pilgrim way though this

is no spiritual path. Here men and ponies toiled a week long return 

from Mizen head to Skibbereen to the Cork  Butter Exchange, loaded 

with two firkins of salted butter, thirty- six pounds apiece, bound 

for Spain and the West Indies and beyond, while we shuffle 

a lightweight backpack between us, water, chocolate- snacks 

for a day trek, stop to frame straggling fuchsia, burnished fern, a cottage

embalmed in ivy and bramble, and the so-called "idle bridge," 

built as relief work during the famine, leading nowhere, shouldering

failed hopes and bones, and listen to the same birds, the long-tailed tit flitting

from limb to limb, the rook setting up a din as we, in passing, disturb

those best left to rest in peace.

 

More of a prose poem

Here is the revision:

Mossy-stoned underfoot, the ponies hooves

 must have sank in the ruts

where they toiled a week long return 

from Mizen head to Skibbereen

to the Cork  Butter Exchange,

loaded with two firkins of salted butter,

thirty- six pounds apiece,

bound for Spain and the West Indies and beyond,

while we shuffle a lightweight backpack between us,

 stop to frame straggling fuchsia, burnished fern,

a cottage embalmed in bramble,

and the so-called "idle bridge," 

relief work during the famine,

leading nowhere, shouldering

failed hopes and bones.

 

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

Revising poetry drafts

 

Revising an earlier draft of your poems is an interesting process. I originally called this poem The Killing Field and it relates to a scene witnessed in  my back garden. The new draft is shorter and I think more effective. A new shape of the poem on the page started to emerge and I decided to play with that. 

The early title also probably conjures up that 1984 British Biographical drama film set in Cambodia. 

Titles matter and I often struggle with them.

 If the poem is meant to surprise you don't want to give too much away. 

However they can be a tad esoteric!!

And there is a practice these days of long titles like : To the boy who nearly won the Tesco Art Competition. Love that!

The Blackbird

 

His head tilted to the thrum of earthworm

He didn’t notice a shadow

hug the ground, or hear

the wing swoop propel 

the raptor forward

 

its long tail fanned out to break speed

 

The last thing

the blackbird saw

was the hawk’s yellow eyes

fixed in a deadly stare, before claws

descend, before shorn feathers blacken the air.

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

 

The original poem below

The Killing Field

He would have had his head tilted listening for earthworms.

He wouldn't have noticed a shadow hugging the ground

or heard the short wings swooping the air 

propelling the raptor forward, its long tail fanned out 

to break speed.

The last thing the blackbird saw was the yellow eyed sparrow hawk

fixing it in a deadly stare before claws descending 

left shorn feathers blacken the air.

What we saw looking out our kitchen window

was a hooked beak delve into bird skull 

and strong yellow legs pin their prey to the ground.

It was too late to save the songster 

and probably unwise.

Concerning Emily Dickinson and That Fly

 

I hear a Fly buzz when I sit-

To meditate- and think of Emily

And how- put out she may

have been- when that Blue-

Stumbling fly- immortalised 

In her Poem-591

Interposed between her-

And Eternity.

Today-Someone would tell her-

It was doing her a Favour-

Keeping her present-

In the Present-

Where she still was-after all-

But I get it-Emily-

The darn Drone of it

Would turn a dying Saint-

Into a Murderer-

Or at least- a Fly Catcher-

Copyright Cathy Leonard 2026

Playing at Rodin's Thinker

 

The West Coast of Ireland is the place to be

if you want to ponder the meaning of life

for here there are no distractions to withstand.

And though I am now sitting in a bungalow

in a capital suburban sprawl-

No Atlantic swell to throw up

flotsam-jetsam wisdom from the deep.

No howling onshore wind crumbling the waves.

No sea mist veiling and unveiling the Skelligs

and its story of viking raids and monastic contemplation.

Just the DPD fellow making another delivery

and a woman out walking her reluctant schnauzer

and a great kerfuffle in the back kitchen

where the cat has just dragged

a fledgling magpie through the cat flap

and is now beginning to regret his bravado.

Making me, right elbow placed on left thigh,

back of right hand supporting chin,

ponder the folly of instinct

untempered by foresight.