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.

What your body remembers

Skin remembers
the warm kiss of sun
chasing away night
and its cold, stiff memories
banishing them until later.

Palms remember
the crush of hearts
as they hold them tight
balancing their give
and take for tomorrow.

Soles remember
the cling of sand grains
hot, dry and black underfoot
like dreams and nightmares
that return in pieces in the dark.

The Wooden Pier

It can not be walked, the wooden pier
that once gripped land and stretched far
out into the sea carrying the weight
of young children and fathers, fishing. Now
fog claims its end
and battered boards repel footsteps.
Some misplaced timbers turn pleasure-walking
into land locked distant viewing. Perhaps
it is better this way, watching the water lap
the wharf, seeking the image
between fog-filled drapes, better seen
from the shore, better as our memories
embellish unforgotten moments.

Spring wind

The petals to and fro in answer
echoing the need of the breeze
and the psalmy lightness of Spring.

The whip of the wind stirs them
until the pink mix twirls
in the curl of unseen breath

and are whisked away to land,
to rot back into the land
as food for the future hungry.

Weeds

The weeds stand tall, stiff in death
after the spray as worked its slow way
from grounded root to sky-raised vein,
not swaying with dawn's gentle breeze,
not relishing the moisture the air carries.

There is no life among them, no green bud
promising to bloom, no seedlings bursting
from seed pods. Even the birds have left them,
knowing brown cannot mean feasting.

Come Home

It is with promise that I write to you. Bright
Spring sun on a cloudless morning cheers
the heart, lifts the soul to soar silently,

serenely beyond reach. I want you to know
the purity of the golden hour, how it caresses
tree bark, encourages cherry blossom petals to arch

under its touch. I know
you are wind-swept, swallowed by great sands
that wash your sky. Your gold

is nothing like this. Harsh to the eye,
a tainted turning of richness to greed, a yellow dust
that settles and rots like rust on a land

that doesn't want you.
Come home, return here to where water
runs crystal clear and cold, where green

is trampled underfoot, where fire kills
to breed new life, to give it pause, not penance.

graffiti

We drive by
and it's not the letters
that catch our eye, but
the curves and colours
of lines. Black
fills the gaps, shadows
the highlights, the greens,
the blues. They began
with yellow, now buried
in the darkness, hidden
as spray cans swarm
the wall, smothering,
until black is the new white
and daylight puts them on top.

graffiti

I would like you to

lay on the grass
sunshine on your skin, while I feed
you stars and moonlight,
watch you pet rainbows
and straddle mountains
you can ride until dawn
tomorrow. I would like you to sleep
and dream of whirlpools,
sparkles scattered on your fingers
that you spin into a necklace
I can wear when you are gone.

Keep looking up

Between the first floor pilings,
sunrise strikes the water. Oddly
orange, it casts an inner glow

into a home gutted. A solitary fish,
searches for food, finds a floating doll
still smiling with empty blue eyes.

It's lighter, the dawn, eerily calm
only the water rushing through the streets
belies the last lazy summer days.

If we keep looking up, we can believe
the day will improve.

The wake of Ike

The seat came from the coast road, concrete
mounds still stuck firmly to its legs. laid
on its back it looked like some star struck cactus
dragged through hay and netted in brown mesh sludge
the sea donated. It must have been some ride
to have washed three miles inland and settle
against the roots of the 100 year oak, a grey coffin
at its side. If the seat could talk,
would it ask to be put back, or to be left
on the roadside snuggled tight to people's possessions?

Paused

We are paused here, halfway
between heaven and hell
clinging to the landscape
like leeches, sucking the life
from the earth, unable
to stop the earth
from sucking the life from us,
pausing to take joy
in the smile on a child's face,
to pat the back of a friend
who's unsure which path to take next,
pausing mid-step to avoid
the pull of reason.
We are paused here amid the chaos
of choices and changes
that chain us to some other hot place
we can not escape.

Waiting

I remember you laying and listening
to the squeak of rubbered footsteps
as they walked the wide white halls,
remember your eyes moving to see

who it was that strode along
with such purpose, who entered
with such poise. I remember
the water held there, in your eyes

when the nurse lifted the blankets
and checked to make sure
your feet were warm, to make sure
that the skin that sagged over your bones,

was warm. I remember wondering if you
could feel their touch, their caring,
if you knew that they loved you too.

A more gentle era

I once looked at castles, wanted
their cool strength

that withheld the fight of swords.
I find the win, now, in the rise of steam

from my teacup, the smile
that a golden leaf brings,
the birth of praying manti.

Ike's visit

He raged and ranted,
deluged the shores
tossing trees and trash
this way and that, muddied
the streets, stormed
his way into homes
without so much as a by
or leave to rip roofs
from walls. He ravaged
a State but did not scratch
the surface of true
Texan souls.

A gathering

I don't know
if the hunch of distant clouds
will drift forever, aimless
wanderers crossing plains
where no mountains
ease their weight.

Blessings

Surrounded by storm clouds
I thanked Him for the lambs,
the calves that grazed
on green pastures. Looked
for the first Spring bulbs
and up to the sky to ask
how much longer
would I have to wait and there,
in the clouds, a heart graduated
from pink to red, from dead
to pumping, a blessing
to remind me that waiting
was part of life.