I see it in a child

When I was younger
I wanted the wisdom
of my grandmother
the things she knew,
the baking of cakes,
rearing of boys from babies
to brats
to men,
the controlling of patience
and unending caring.
Now I am older,
I wish I had the wisdom
of my daughter.

Prayer Walking

Like the dry washing of hands
I wait impatiently
for the coming of autumn,
the cooling of land,
the colouring of leaves
that decorate dying trees.
There is heat in the wind,
warm easterlies
undermining sensibility,
pushing pride
beyond patience,
shortening maybe,
to never,
prolonging the agony
of searing skin prints
as souls land on iron sand.

Nearly wrecked

Torn blue tarpaulins
barely cover the breaking boat
as it sits by the bridge
in the harbour. Rain pelts the roof,
there are no buckets
underneath to catch the drops
to carry the water
away from floorboards
that remember wet salt
as polish.
It floats,
barely,
empty.

Its captain
lives behind bars,
not for illegal smuggling
or drug trafficking,
but some other offense
equally effective
in allowing the elements
to reside in the ship
that soon will know
the feel of mud
against its keel.

A special day

I've spent nights studying the sky
wondering who hung the moon
and stars just so
I could watch them silently tiptoe
from horizon to horizon
beyond the reach of fingers.

I've waited to view McNaught -
a thief who stole light
from the sun
ran across the universe
to be seen once,
or twice,
before never being seen again
by the same eyes.

I've cried at missing the comet,
grief tightening the tourniquet
of disappointment
around my heart.

Birthdays come around annually.

Feb 5th, 2007 will never,
ever,
come again.

Free Words

Why hide the words?

They want to escape
from behind the welted minds
that bar them, to break
the bonds keeping them prisoner,
secreted away
where blind eyes no longer feel them.

Free the words!

Forget the penny!

Flood the world with thoughts!

A leaf

I found you on the carpet,
small enough to fit my palm

brown, giving away the notion
that you were one of the weak ones
that fell first,

shadowed, with mysterious crevices
hills and valleys all your own

shriveled, no longer youthful
but bent with age and dried
with your dying.

I find you beautiful.

Living Conditions in a Glass Bubble, A Raindrop

Can you see what's hidden,
what it must be like, living
inside a glass bubble,
dangling from an orange stem
fat,
swollen,
pregnant without the pauses
to pale into insignificance.

I see a single white eye
a side view of a womb
softened, containing
an entire world. Not a replica
of all on the outside. More
choosy, as if hand-picked and placed
like old furniture in a new room.

I see you.





Illustration by Arlon, photographer

Facial Masks

Rolled oats and wrinkles
curve the corners of my mind
release the pain of hunger rumbling
and smooth the frown
between my brows.

How apt it is that something I eat
becomes a mask where only eyes
can see and mouth mumble,
where skin crumbles, softens, falls away
so all is left are the blatant lines
that hold the mind behind skull bones.

Wash Day Blues

It's as simple as black and white,
put the washing on the line to dry
on a perfectly blue sky day
and clouds will clamour
crumpling the margins of the horizon
in their cumulus frenzy.

Saying Goodbye

Steel rose into the blue
engines burned fuel,
fuzzing the landscape so
mountains bent
and shimmered in the vapour
stream. Words
stuck in my throat
as if the tears swallowed
had drowned my voice.

The bones feel it

Shifting sands stoned to death a tree
stealing its soul, leaving the bones
laying on iron waves, limbs
reaching high as if in protest
at an agonising downfall. There is nothing
left, no life nor renewal of birth
for this tree, its parched skeleton
half buried in the black burning sand.

Stars

I wanted to write about stars
how I could see them in puddles,
which was strange
because puddles meant rain
and rain meant clouds
and clouds meant no stars,
but I know I saw them
twinkling away on the ground
as if they'd fallen
and were waiting to be trampled.

Remember Forever

Now she rests,
forever beautiful
a serene smile
replacing that voracious grin
and mischievous look in her eyes.
I'll remember her with smiles,
remember her poking tongue
whilst soaking in her bubble bath,
remember her shopping trip
the week before she left us,
I'll remember turkeys on her toes
and snowflakes
and candy canes.
I'll remember the love
that she carried and gave away
to everyone in need.
I'll remember her forever.

The order of the day

Smiles are back
I can see them on the faces
around me, memories
playing on the wet window pane, games
of poking tongues in the bath
behind oodles of bubbles,
turkeys and candy canes
painted on nails, pink
shirts on boys
and a big red truck
parked in the driveway
with a young lady in cool shades
behind the steering wheel.
How could I not smile, today?

To Chelsey, the child born an angel - RIP

There are some things
on this earth
that are more important
than a sparrow bathing,
a cat sitting on a windowsill
or a blackbird's morning song

because once in a while
an angel is born, a child
who will turn the disheartened,
who will rearrange the thoughts
of a non-believer,
bend their little piece
of the world
to rights again.

You've been an angel on Earth
today, the way your hand
caressed your mother's cheek,
the way your smile gathered more,
the way you wore your kindness
as steel plated armour
and flung out arrows
of love for everyone you saw,

and now you're an angel in the Heaven
of tomorrow. I walk my garden
and see your hopeful eyes
staring back through raindrops
on petals. You are beautiful,
unforgettable and graceful

and though things seemed topsy turvy
there is one who had a greater need
for you. He has taken you
under his wing,
to nurture your kindness
and love, and to teach you
more of your gifts. You have gone

to him with opened arms
and shown us that in following
there is no fear,
no frightening moments.

You have lead the way,
smoothed the road
for us to follow.
God's speed girl,
friend. Rest
in peace, Chelsey.

The room of an angel

Fill the room with roses.
I read the last sense to leave
is smell.
They won't see red
or pink, colour will come
on the waft of small breaths,
those shallow breaths that rattle,
put us all on edge and play
with our memories.

Fill the room with carnations,
pink fuzzy bubbles of joy
that tickle the times
we laughed and loved.
Let pink crinkle the edge
of silence, let pink parade!

Fill the room with forget-me-nots
those tiny blue petals
be-lie the patience God carries
as he creates. There's barely scent
to cleanse the air, but the leaves
carry green and bring Eden
to the room of an angel.

A True Love

He's busy now, building a house
of dreams, cupping the breeze
in his hands and throwing it indoors,
sealing windows to stop summer
from seeping out.
He's bought a ring, gold

lights his eyes as he speaks
of his love. I don't have the heart
to tell him it's too soon, that at sixteen
he could be thinking of living
and riding sunbeams around the Earth.
All I see is seriousness in his eyes,

the head over heels stuff
that ties our ankles and swings us about
flinging us to the horizon
with its drowning sun of colours
that we cannot touch. All I see
is how much he loves her,

how his focus is fuzzed
with her sharp edges softened.
All I see is the steep arch
and all I know is that this is one bridge
I must stand beside.

Chelsey, Keep Fighting!

It's in their words
of comfort, to tell her
to keep fighting! To
banish the black
from the edges
of life and bring back the pink.
And she has been fighting,
knocking back the black
pounding it into submission
until it was a mere fringe,
a ruffle on life.
Now she sleeps
a maiden, an angel
resting for the last leg
of her journey, perhaps
the toughest of all paths.
May God bless her
and hold her tight in his arms
and may she awaken
to know the joy of Paradise.

Passing Galveston

Black waves finger the shore.
Galveston waits as the sun
descends through peach.
Buildings stand steady, foundations
cemented. The sea will curl
around them, claim
them one sand grain
at a time, one mortar crumb
at a time, and flee with them,
returning history
to the ocean.


Illustration by RH Keeling, photographer,
Poem by Karen Sweet

The Woodshed

There was a green shed
tacked onto the end of the garage
at my grandparents' place.
Sometimes I would go in

and sit on the chopping block,
a big old stump of macrocarpa
that I could sit on cross-legged,
or drape myself over so I could stare

up at the corrugated tin roof
where sometimes the sun
peeked through as if it were watching
my every move. Sometimes

I stood on the block, pretending
I was a rock singer, moving hips
and holding an invisible microphone
to my lips while I sang out of tune

those old songs that played
on the radiogram. But mostly
I'd just sit and soak in the scent
of chopped wood, run fingers
over the seeping gum

and pretend that pre-winter
would last forever.