Tuesday, 12 August 2014

The Soldier's Wife

Today i mourn an unborn child
he’d have my words
and your many-layered smile
he’d carry an entire village in his head
and wear a slew of medals across his strong chest.
my child would walk mountains with particular ease
and words and music will make his special feast
and he’d like to argue but also to stay calm
and when he’d hug you, why, you’d always stay warm.
yes, my child he’d have stars in his eyes
and a spirit that never says die
and a moodiness that’s yours as much as it’s mine
and a constant craving for the simple life.
maybe he’d write
no, he absolutely will
seeing what brought us together
words will enthral him
keep him still
ah that child of mine
would change you
in so many ways
and so today
i mourn my unborn child
and also, perhaps, my unborn life.

Monday, 31 March 2014

Mountain Pass

everywhere i went you haunted me
and now among the many shades of green
finally i am free
of your ghost and your need.
this is how it comes to pass
in bright autumnal colours
and with the majesty of a many tongued waterfall
it disappears in the oppressive crush of people
who follow nothing except their own hearts.
their hearts cause traffic jams and irate passengers and create a mood that does not bode well for a mending heart.
so amidst the generous display of what the world had to offer in green and greed,
in people and plants,
in water and wanderers,
i let go of you.
wander my restless heart.
breathe deep of the raw fragrance that punctuates the air like an exuberant exclamation point.
search for your own self and soul.
and when you know, just let go.

Long Distance

we work best in small measures and measured time
in rare appearances and hesitant smiles
we work best in the afternoon light
and as the voices of the night.
we work best without the chains
of demands and complaints
without the guise of normalcy
we get to be you and me.
we work best in ambiguity
in this deep desire that should bind but sets us free
we work because of the miles that separate your life your bed and mine.
yes we work in fractured splintered days
and interminable hours
in words of passion and opinion
and in the same stars
we work in intent and promise
even if they aren't to be
we work in the only way we can
we work as you and me.

Thursday, 20 February 2014

Hypocrite

i lurk these cyber spaces
there are so many worlds to go
but everywhere i reach to
nothing feels like home.
how sad that though you're
right by my side
search for you this way
but even for
me, dogged pursuer
this journey has been
in vain.
so i move on
as i am wont to do
finding someone better to replace you
and you can go back to your indentured life
but pretend you're your own man
struggling against lies and strife.

Refuse

If i could i would
steal all the  things
the world doesn't need
and write them into poetry.
an unwanted child
an orphan annie
will feel right at home
with a lost soul like me
and victims of disdain
the unlike other kind
will realise i am good
once i make up my mind
the bird with a broken beak
the woman from a broken home
will find i am broken too
and shelter in my poem
and shall we talk
of books well written
that no one seems to want
i take them in and enjoy
their beauty and their old fashioned font
the desolate man
on a snow-filled peak
finds pleasure in my words’ embrace
he thinks i am his as he reads
there’s no hurry no race
the world keeps looking for ways to discard
the things it thinks it doesn’t need
but for them i ache
and they don't disappoint
despite my indecent greed. 

Thursday, 31 October 2013

Baggage Claim

that battered suitcase
doesn't look like a lot
but maybe it’s got magic
a few sticks, some pot
that ordinary duffle bag
could tell you stories
like you wouldn't believe
of a dirty weekend getaway
where time went by, swiftly, tenderly, fervidly
maybe you'd prefer the matched set in crocodile skin
that speaks of expensive spas, sex, salvation and sin
and there’s the old steel trunk
rustic in its appeal
that tells me a village girl
has made a green card deal
i bet in the box
packed to breaking point
are ready mixes and powders galore
to curb the worst of homesicknesses
when your heart’s hurting for more
there’s that cheap grey vanity case
unobtrusive , the way she wears her face
she doesn't call attention to her age
and the brushes hold back their stories
there’s the guitar and all its glories
and a little child’s bubblegum pink bag
and a suitcase with an officious sounding name tag
and there’s me.
that black bag
filled to the hilt with books
and memories of you.
that’s all i could fit in, in the end.


Monday, 24 June 2013

Merry Widow

sometimes i’m filled with so much rage
i don’t want to read
but burn this whole damn page
and hurl the heavy ashes at his ugly face
and turn to putrid garbage to avoid his embrace
it would take so little
to stuff a pillow to that face
it would take a bit of strength
to sink a knife into that rib cage
maybe slip in some poison
into that drink he likes so much
but all i do
is slam this damn door shut.
the hapless housewife often feels
rage
such burning anger
seeing a fat husband and spoilt children
arguing about dinner.
how nice it would be to upturn
this tureen of hot broth
it would have to be him.
the baby’s wearing a new frock.
oh my the poet
how scandalous her thoughts
better she be boycotted
she’s insane or has been bought
by the devil
she’s made love to him, you know
for writing this way is inhuman and has only one cure.
death to the writer
death to the muse
death to the pen
death there’s no excuse.
now let’s go back to our pots and pans
and talk of our televisions and our shopping plans
while our husbands are indifferent
and our children, undisciplined
we’ll cook and clean
and plot and preen
and put away our hearts
and not vent our spleens.
thank god the poet’s dead
we can breathe easy today
wait. what’s that.
someone’s walking on our grave.