The clothes my poems wear

These days they are dressed in tailored
truths that will fill black caves with a light
so eerily bright one blinks. Once

I draped them in gowns and masks,
muslins and facinators to catch
the eye, beautified them

hoping to enhance their look.
The appeal was fleeting.

It is easier to endow them in a well cut suit,
pearls and elegant heels that click
and scrape occasionally on concrete, just

to see if they can still capture your attention.

What happens to our memories when we are done with them?

I am reminded of grandmother's hands,
the pale wrinkled backs she gentled with lotion,
the way her hand held mine, when we caught
the bus to shop, how her hands steadied
my back as if she were an angel protecting
all sides of me, how her hands brushed
the hair from my eyes, patted me on the back
nudged me forward. What will happen when her hands
are no longer a memory? Where will they go?

Tagger

This isn't Broadway
though every kid with a spray can
thinks he's a star, climbing
buildings and bridges
to leave his mark
as if he's the most important one,
as if he needs to prove he is the one
with the upbeat future, and digs
too fancy to soil.
He'll hang around big-noting, skite-ing
of the daring danger, how the train
near-clipped his ankle as it passed under
his fancy paint-job. Another night
there'll be a new decoration, some other kid,
some other gang battling behind the tags.

Achiever

Somewhere between suckling at the breast
and now, she grew up
gathered her skins close, lit
the leftovers with a blow torch
and marched on through
non-stop until her print
was etched in black and white
and framed on a prominent wall.

Treasure

I find you washed up on the beach
skeletal, blacked, a contrast
to the white waves and wavering sun
that glares less than gold

broken, yet shimmering
feather, shell, leaf, pumice, drift-
wood, scattered along the sleepless shoreline
waiting for the name, treasure.

Unpreventable sunset

In dying you became vibrant,
rusted reds clamour for the outside,
blue is banished to above, where we look
askance as if every question
deserves an answer, every bird
the ability to fly. In death
you smell of lillies, of fresh sawn pine
that returns memories of forest walks
and sunsets we could not prevent.

Duct tape

It holds the page together,
makes my pen a one-piece
and yet when I write
the day becomes scattered
between lines, scrawled
to the edges, unstuck
and dangerously close
to the graffiti decorating
the wall under the bridge
where empty needles lay.
If it weren't for the tape
torn white remnants would blow
down the street, sweep
up to the city, mache
the tallest building
with pieces of poetry.
If it weren't for the tape
my words would be
singularly spoilt.