Things that are Important to Me

Moon Pull

To wander with nature,
unadorned, listening

to the morepork's mournful night call
to watch the stars tuck in the sun,

to watch its downfall
at the horizon's foot.

It is not enough to believe blindly
the earth is round, I have to watch

the arc of the moon, to feel its pull
of tides, its push of night.

I am woman and no longer bleed.

Things that are Important to Me

i want to be upfront, so
you'll have to turn aside
your eyes at the sharp bits,
those phrases or words that bite
into your soul, heat your blood and remind you
just how alive you really are.
turn away until i have moved on,
turn back when you are ready
to join me again.

~

i like my breasts, they
remind me i am woman, not
that i need the reminder, i know,
but there are times others forget

the centuries of nurturing, the tender years
of love-soothes and nocturnal pacing
that has gone into the making of me.

my mothers worked fingers until their bones
were covered in wrinkled, freckled, hard skin.
they cooked and cleaned until even that skin
that held them together, began to burn away
the history their callouses carelessly covered.

they sold their wares to any bidders,
not just the highest, sold their souls
to the devil to save their favoured ones
the ones who stepped in their prints,
the girls who poked and prodded
sheets in boiling coppers, girls who slaved
over irons and ovens, who picked up the slack
and ran with it, barefoot, into their own homes.

sometimes nothing more than bones and broth
lay on their tables, nothing more than old papers
lay on their beds. sometimes
i wish i lived in less complex days, but really
i have no idea.

i won't wear a trouser suit, walk
with chin high, and briefcase swinging. i
wear a smile, skirts, and tops low enough to reveal
a slight shadow to leave no doubt in your mind that i
am woman.

Different Dreams

We conjure up the dream,
the cottage in the country

with its white picket fence,
the two point four children

and meat and three veg dinners,
the evening cops and robbers shows

on the tv in the corner. The dream
where we'd all work,

where needs were all well met,
and luxuries were the norm.

We lived it until the bubble burst,
the market crashed, petrol skyrocketed

until a Sunday drive turned
into afternoon walks

and the house was filled again
with the scent of hot homemade bread

from a different distant dream.

Saving grace for you

I'll pray for peace for you,
no matter that the sicknesses
are tearing your body apart,

wish for love and kindness,
for more sunrises than you can imagine,
for morning bird song and rainbows

and waterfalls. I'll wish for grace
that will carry you through, grace
that will guide you and me.
A saving grace.

Not everyone looks

I run them through my fingers, stones
cold and smooth to the touch, as if in some way
they can reassure me. A rosary could be chanted
in the space between each, a moon rise
welcomed by photographers, a dawn
promising the best of days - all
these things lift my eyes
to where I believe you settle. Not everyone
knows how to see you. Not everyone looks.

Some Days

Some days are bland,
grey sky spread to the horizon,

meals that don't tempt, nor
touch the sides as they're swallowed,

morose head-hanging
as if the economy sits inside, dragging

you down when all it takes
is one wrong move, or a silence

misconstrued for 'don't care'.
And then there are the others,

where one wink will set off bells,
disarm the most wary and leave them

panting, down on their knees
praying for more.

Christmas Tree

Look to the tree, its coloured lights
blazing as if night's stars have fallen;
the branches cradle them
and reflect the faces that search
each pinnacled scape
for some glimpse of a more bearable side. Paradise

beneath, and among the fashioned Summered mosses, lay
the dreams of children, small hopes
pinned below a tree, fifty feet high. Boxes
gaily wrapped and ribboned, gifts
with sharpened edges and soft, beckon
to be touched, gently shaken. Soon,

all too soon, the blessed morning
arrives and delight surpasses
yesterday's wondering. Lights dim
against a backdrop of smiles and laughter.

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.