You were never mine—
how I swam your blue
Upon your fin,
blades of grass penetrated
I was, as if, tree—
reaching for my shore.
I ring the bell and you greet me kindly at your golden door, I sense opulence. Invited in, I enter, slip off my ankle boots; hoping you will not notice where the stitching is unravelling, side of the right suede boot.
Along your halls are framed tickets of accomplishments, they are impressive, mostly for the colour-coordinated touches. I love colour, drown in hue, but you wouldn’t know that.
I wonder about your secret side: we all have one.
You offer me some tea from your most recent travels, ask of my own. Truth is, of late I am on foot! The wings of a plane seem a stretch when I am so.
I won’t let you guess at that.
So here we stand in your kitchen, we form an interesting juxtaposition; you thought we had much in common as on the phone I was all ears and soaked up your knowledge. Now it is just us, face to face, are you waiting for the secret intellectual? She isn’t coming. I sense that you sense it. I am awkward now, doing my best just to block my soul’s transcript.
We gaze, half smile, I turn my head to the side and say, ‘I like what you have done here.’
You offer the story of three pieces of furniture, your voice is low, and I am thinking:
You are so humble when you are gentle,
You are kind enough, I know that without doubt,
You are open to me; I understand…
So, where to from here?
And can you tell me—
if you saw a grass parrot stunned, broken wing twitching, would you stop? Would you wrap that bird in the warmth of your best jacket and call your local wildlife rescue? Tell me: when you envisage the future is it bathed in more gold? Or music that fills the spaces left by the frogs and birds?
Tell me how you determine worth.
Please understand, I am not decorated in such famed tickets. My accomplishments are secret and cannot be measured to fit a frame. Does this bother you?
And so, where to from here?
Published in Painted Words, 2017 and soon to appear in my first poetry collection ”Freedom bird.”
In memory of JD.
‘A peaceful warrior’
My friend left his body on Wednesday,
I did not notice.
I was caught in the colours of my graduation gown,
the one with the two yellow stripes;
an angel on my shoulder was smiling,
on occasion I like to please her.
Later that evening
I walked his street with my daughter,
we took turns carrying a blue balloon.
We were only three blocks from his house,
I did not notice he was missing.
It was Sunday,
I logged on to the Face registry
there was a post from his sister that read:
He was dead.
Never have words leapt from the screen like a punch.
I could not breathe.
Oh, his precious heart.
Moments later, a rare sun shower
I knew it was him.
So I went to my secret box,
found his letter—
his magical love letter.
Upon the tea-stained page,
the ink and the sentiment—
untouched, despite fifteen years.
And that night ‘his song’
played twice over the radio
as the bats put on a show
before several swooped into the pear tree.
The signs came all week:
‘his’ song concluded the festival
and the whole crowd sang along.
In the crematorium I felt a hand upon my shoulder—
I knew it was him.
I waited to say the final goodbye.
And a little voice inside urged me to floor it as I left the cemetery.
I knew it was him, by my side.
The passenger seat appeared empty
still I smiled for him,
asked him to stay,
understood that he couldn’t
plus, that would be selfish.
Then I felt him leave.
It was his love for me that kept me from him,
I will spend the remainder of my days with this knowledge.
I have read his letter so many times
and all I can do is think of that damn blue balloon
and how it floated in the hall
This poem featured in Painted Words, 2017.
Ether slip: playground of light
Existence rule book: “when you blow out the candles do not announce your wish”
No-one ever questioned the logic: very superstitious
When I was a child wishes came via dandelions
but now, since all the dandelions are on fire—
my wishes are prayers
to all Gods.
Human windmills in earth liquid,
we swam the billabong after dark
hydraulic operations of the heart.
Excavating every misery of flesh.
Big kids with twenty-nine-year-old bones
whooping, splashing under stars,
the mud inched under each nail until—
hair was caked.
Pineal glands decalcified
under a January moon,
full of noise and moan
First published in the BKI anthology ”Painted Words, 2016”
Lady Rosa: Lady of the Garden.
olives, fresh bread, a summer afternoon in Crete.
She leads to water,
where every bird meets for bath or hymn.
Lady Rosa whispers–
beyond roses, beyond thyme, beyond constellations.
I never catch what she says yet,
I always remember the meaning.
Lady Rosa is a friend amongst dreaming—
plucking at guitar,
perhaps whispering ”patience.”
Lady Rosa: sky baby
and Queen of all Garden Folk.
We plough the dirt,
Zeus fills it with rain.
I make a moat, we sail away—
to the land of Lady Rosa.
Then as birds, we frolic
in garden, sky,
or shallow swim.
And at night,
” Lady Rosa is the day of the morning;
the midnight of afternoon. ”
Published in the BKI anthology ‘Painted Words, 2016’