Beautiful

She sat at our table
placemats squared

like her stubborn
kissed chin

with a darkened mole
on her stage-right cheek

she never meant to
say so very much

’bout maternal dis-possessions

which is our shared
inheritance

but the problem is halved.

Linings

The daily rituals return
like when I took
the wooden rule

not quite up to the job

that knobbled edge to run
my fountain pen against

the overexcited Indian ink
would leave me to blot

those small stains
are inverted now
found on my sleeve

the toothpaste specks
are my page-ready mistakes
as I bend to this sink
making good this new day

to lay out
line by line
my life

Fall

Almost December
and this bit
of our northern hemisphere

is being tricked by the
man-made warmth
into putting feelers out
from within

the false Spring which catches
too keen lifeforms and me

I am over dressed for
these modern Novembers

Old scars

Again
she loosened him
like you do to a ripe scab
with a quick pick

and each time
she contributed to that flesh mark
he had upon her

that white scar
vividly lit by the sun’s admissions
never burn-protected
almost

just almost
cancer’s low cat flap
under which he crawled
to grow
again inside her


E110119

Of this parish

Our laid souls will return
to the same parish

there imperially paced
by our pre-descendents

where our earth-stained
attempts to create distance

with breath and word usage

are removed by the vacuum
in god’s pre-creation

and our put upons and ways
will fall

as Galileo guessed

at the same speed.

Fail

I do not want to see
or to feel

the place in which
you
a Light
have to exist:

Shore-washed
almost state-less

and un-returned
by muscles and
missing connections

I do not want
the contraction
of my view

which doctors
fail to fix:

a discomfort
I do not
EVER
want to
feel

Wish

I would not wish
this hushed visitor
on any other
sleeping person,

my dark creature
which tightens the night
into these reeling
muscle spasms,

which medicine
and kindly doctors
chase through my racked body
with known drugs,

not knowing which one
will do their job:
none can help me
to sleep, no more, easy.

Verge

As if there was enough death
to recall at this time of year
there is another one to add
to the villagers’ engraved lists,

but she shall not be set to stone
in a public place, instead placed,
for now, in a far-removed room
to wait, to wake to dried tears;

she will not cry, or laugh, again,
pull faces, look for the moon,
take a selfie, be misunderstood,
she will not cry, or laugh, again.

Wonder Years

No wonder our kids
look into their palms,
that well of distraction
in a real world of harm:
cupped as treasure,
almost delicate grips
around the devices
which free them from us;
we (the adults)
have written their code,
we are the fools
who offer no gold.

Sky lines

Bared, here in the sky,
as if upturned, roots
inverted, then left,
a myriad of black veins,

spot-clotted by lime leaves
and the left behind roosts
of the gone summer’s birds:

Like those casts they make
of ant colonies, dead-fused,
but these reached branches
are the uttermost fingers
of the stood still giants.