Dear God,

Thank you for the joy you bring
for the struggles you share,
thank you for the friendships,
the love and the losses.

Thank you for letting Jarry's path
touch mine, for without that event
I never would have known the friendship
of a group of extra special people

who know the value of friendship,
the worth of giving, the cost of loss,
nor would I have learnt the prophet
of love. Thank you, Lord

for leading me to here,
for enlarging my family
with people whom I would share
my blood.

Please keep them all safe
and healthy and happy, give them no more
than they can handle,
and let them know they are loved.

Amen.

The Ringing

There are silent bells
in the room and they ring
to fill the air with the space
between words,

those gaps of hesitancy
that we relegate
into yesterday's journal.

There are bells ringing
and they remind me
it is time to sit up and write,

to pour onto the page
letters that will not form
on my lips, tears
that will not tumble down my cheeks.

They remind me to stop
to listen
to remember as only I can

the wisdom passed on
carried from kernel to crop
from thought to story,
from beginning to an end

that only I will see, in silence.

Angel Song

Sometimes in the sad-heavy seconds
around midnight, I pace
the carpet bare foot, looking
for your golden-haired head
and your sleep-laden smile, that miracle
that guides me back from the dark
dank places that beckon,
looking for your face that leads me
with the promise of light
and laughter into a new dawn.

Outside smells like rain

warm soil, wet road,
random scents, and sounds
of birds, beaks filled
with wriggling dirty worms
they have plucked from the ground.

Leaves drip tears
for lost Spring sunshine, drip
down to the weeds that rise
through the steamy forest floor.
Outside smells like rain.

I want you to be more

I want you to be more
but choice no longer mine to make
has let you become no more
than an item on the list
in my bag.

eggs

banking

library

Joe Blogg

And there you are
at the bottom, not even
top. It is as if some other time
has taken over, some other
life belonging to she who stares
out from the gilt-edged frame
on the side board. That old photo
a reminder that I am nailed
to this time, this place
where I am forgotten and left
to hold the silken web of dreams.

Your Word


As if there is not a enough of a muddle
down here to deal with, when I look up
I see spirals in the clouds. I wonder
if for once you struggle,
if you cannot fathom
why people have begun to spin
the wrong way, why
your grounding is withering. Perhaps
it is time to bring on another flood
to re-fashion a land in waiting,
to re-create the old guidelines
of your word.

for Jarry, and for me

It's been a year
since you left
and often I've wondered
if you've been watching
my struggle,
those dogeared days
when I've picked up pen
in anticipation,

and put it down again
when thought has not
followed through
to words plied into poems.

I remember your questions, designed
to work me to that red point
of realisation, of knowing
what I want to say, and how.

I wasn't ready for you to leave
but now, a year later, finally
I accept it, this loss

and the empty silence

that is not filled
with you. I accept the space

and the challenges you left.

No longer hesitant

It is there in the reflection
of sunlight on your pupil, the intent,
your purpose. You

are here beside me
hand on shoulder, that gentle squeeze
letting me know everything is okay,
that it is all normal, relative.

I've waited for some sign, a direction
you point and I walk
and now I know
I'll take the step first.

No longer hesitant.

I grew up

I grew up without alleys
to avoid. The only dark shadows
were stored under my bed,
or in the corner of the room
where they would come out
every now and again
during the night to remind me
there was a difference
between dark and light.

Back then green was my stable, blue
resided above, never slipping low
or stealing into my mind
and raping my thoughts thoughtlessly.

Yellow was delight, sunshine,
or daisies that sometimes seemed
like fallen stars on the lawn. Lazy
days on holiday and Christmases
where gifts overflowed from boxes
too numerous to count.

Red was something those kinds of women
wore, and black was for funerals
I did not attend.