Nine charms

Hanging from twisted wire
coloured glass baubles dangle -
a necklace, chain laced beads
a no nonsense, no bounce
style. The only quirk, a catch
not halfway, drawn back
into a waterfall of links
holding space in each loop.
A rosary of disjointed emptiness.

San Francisco's wrought iron and Alcatraz

Among the screams for release
are the wrought iron gates
painted pink and pretty
in the curves that carve
the line between the jailed
and the free.

They are oddities,
out of place pieces
that really belong on the houses
that line the streets
of San Francisco.

They are there too, in the city,
painted black
and I wonder at the quirk,
the tease,
and which will stand longest
in a city to be flattened
by earthquakes.

What will be seen...

There will be craned necks,
stiffened from searching
concrete walls, spires
that pierce the sky
and spoil the promise
that would have arrived
with the first blessing
of dawn. Birds,
perched on facades gilded
with the fake reckoning
of a city that hides
the unpleasant
under layers of dark and duty,
will sing a morning prayer,
a welcoming to a new land
bereft of the familiar.

Well below

It is not like you aren't up there,
wandering the sky beyond
those high clouds, lighting
the heavens with our dreams

of peace on earth, and goodwill
that we pray won't fly out the door
with those other hopes we've voiced
recently. I wonder

if you're always listening, if
you really want to hear
all the prayers that we send
constantly toward the stars

when the night reminds us
we should be on bent knees

before you. I kneel in the dark,
know you are above
and am aware I am well below.

Out back in the garden

Out back in the garden
beyond the footed path
lay the corpses of snails,
silver trails washed away
with last season's windswept fury.

A few lifers remain hidden
up under ledges,
beneath rocks. Yet still
they peer out, intent on crossing
Summer's shadowless cobbles.

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.

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