Thursday, March 29, 2018

Sliding to the Edge of Oblivion

I find the edges of you
rimmed with poison
to which I have no antidote.

So I curl
within my walled fortress,
trust no one.
All are flavoured with murder.

This is my truth.
A backwash of terror
impossible to flourish in.

Briny water that leaches soil,
kills all living things.

It is a song of life and death,
of love and failure -
a disability to thrive.

Crunched in silence,
searching for peace,
grains of murder roll through me -
a fascination with death.
It brings no comfort.

Your edges are rimmed with poison,
but I must taste them -
like a salt-edged tequila shot,
promise of oblivion.

I want to say that fear has no part of this,
but fear imbues every flavour.

I don't know if any of it matters -
the murder, the poison, the fear.

I lie here and watch another dawn show up
with her golden eyes and bag
full of opportunities for salvation.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Sometimes my skin doesn't feel like my own
I drift outside myself
black blossom
tinged with gold
inevitable rapture    

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Sunday

It's very early Sunday morning.
Around me the city begins to stir
in the first pale glimmer of spring.
Your father is still in bed
trying to sleep away his broken heart.

You are all around me here -
hazy drift of breath on the chill air,
lavender wreaths of cloud,
trailed across the sky,
the distant woosh of traffic.

Geese cry as they wing
high above the slumbering rooftops.
Another day -
too beautiful for you not to be in it.

White Light

You're so far away.
I reach my mind for you,
and there's nothing.

The lines on the monitors
look promising, but they lie.
Just an echo of machines
they drift and fall flat -
promise broken, purpose lost.

In my mind's eye
you wake and rise.
Your eyes are full of life,
your faerie wings unfurl,
fill the room with blue sky
and sunshine.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Babies & Gardens

You have to have somewhere quiet
to leave the world –
communicate -
it's the hardest thing.
To share an idea,
reach understanding
with others.
I have a voice –
very small –
only heard in quiet places.
My mother would say, when the children cried,
I always used to take you into the garden when you cried.
The peace of the garden would calm you.
I tried it, and she was right.
I was so surprised.
The things I have to say are simple,
but they are everything –
a universe of stars –
and how we fill the spaces between them.
Resist -
you have the choice to say no,
I do not need that TV shoe phone.
What do I need it for?
To breathe?
To eat?
To light the candle of my soul?
To fill the hole
Where God used to be?
You have a choice
not to buy.
Take your babies into the garden.
Share with them the summer’s eve –
the dark soil and how it cradles and feeds the seeds.
Show them that this is what sustains us.
This is where life begins,
what we need to feed our hunger -
what Nike iphone Apple 
can never replace.
I have a voice –
very small.
It needs a quiet place to share with you –
communicate –
try to understand –
we need the peace of the garden to hear.

Sunday, February 12, 2017

The Flame-haired Boy

The flame-haired boy
lives his life like the strike
against a tinder box,
ignition of a match head -
incandescent.

He bathes in the rocket's red glare -
where and when unimportant,
just a howling flight
through darkness.

He's not afraid of an apocalypse
he dreams it - inspires it.
He is blinded in his own light -
a faux-Christ -

his salvation is a fire pit
of self-righteousness.
He thinks to save us
with the purification of fire -
but he will burn -
and all the world with him.


Monday, January 02, 2017

The Wedding


We arrived late afternoon
to witness the binding together
of this man to this woman.

Many of us didn’t know each other,
but a few speeches, silly games, and wines later
we were establishing a cheerful gang mentality.

After dinner, speeches, and the cutting of the cake
we strayed out through the night to write of love
with sparklers’ fire against the darkness,


and went home with pocketsful of stars
and tiny porcelain love birds.


Saturday, February 27, 2016

Insomniata

Sleep, silky soft,
crept into my arms
and held me
beneath the night sun -
spun me a cocoon of dream
spiced with imaginings.

I wish I knew
how to make her stay.

Mars aint the kind of place to raise your kids -

Like a silent breath
holding for a first step,
Mars waits.

The name is an idea
of green men in saucers,
but reality is red dust
and far.

So far only the mind's eye can see
the soft, floating vistas,
excavations of canals,
and the creatures
who might dwell in them.