Chris

Here he still sits,
long-legged,
with his foreigness,
to all of us;
the loudness
of the household,
his to maintain,
even after
just three beers,
even when
no longer here.

Chris Bell b.1961 d.2009
Nezer Sereni, Israel.

Distances

awake at 3.30
where you sleep
writing at 5.30
here in the east
to the wired hum
of the ceiling fan
my breath circulates
as pre-planned
to assist my sleep
in this Israeli heat
which at midday
will force my retreat
but now disturbed
by my body’s pain
my dreams my freedom
are gone again
until I return
to my forced collapse
this mid-afternoon
pain-free relaxed
under sleep’s drug
I’ll relish once more
my prior state
far time zones before

One

I admitted again
to my long-term plan
and it delivered to you
clear tears again

for which I apologise
now in advance
for future fears
when taking my stance

https://www.whitehelmets.org/

Dusted by the fallout,
now grit-showered,
the weight of white
on their protection,
on their masked faces,
still ringing in the ears
of their hearing,
hours after digging,
each child-cried to find:
A short limb of victory,
as they fight war’s
finger-choke:
They wage their own,
without weapons,
but pictures.

https://www.whitehelmets.org/

Puss-cat Time

Lillian, Lillian…
you’re too good for him:

Julian ain’t worth it,
you’re undervaluing

your ability to screw,
to wine, and to dine:

Go stroke Matt,
he needs ‘Puss-cat’ time.