la graine

laise

This brittle heart

has loved only once

she gives the impression

she is eternally shut

though within her lies

a seed of hope as dormant as

the buds beneath winter earth

but whom

shall bring forth rain and sun

permitting her entry once again

to consider the marvel of a world

where love is not common

nor easily found

where cutting oneself off and hiding

beneath heavily padded doors

is one way the sensitive heart survived

so long

yet we are sand running in opposite direction

a flame not to last eternity

for surely the beat of our hearts

reminds us

there are reasons for longing

watching another moment pass by

thinking

what if

out there

in unknown, there is a person

wishing just as I

for the other half

would it be

we could discover

each other

and close

the emptiness

within us

even for the short

space of a

life time

Uncommon

c51e6bc5e98678539d061ac9c04667afNot afraid of the usual fears

obscurity

ageing

indifference of lovers

I bought a pair of scissors

snipped out the dead bits

threw away the glamor and beguilement

seeing through gossamer trappings

yet I am still fearful

of uncommon things

dissolution and repetitive days

adding up to waste

working in a cubicle

coming home to warmed up left-overs

hanging washing on weekends

mowing lawns iced with Ready Grow

chores belaboring chores

like sore throated choir singers

duck behind pulpit for a shot of whiskey

I do not fear wrinkles earned

or sagging parts hidden beneath thick coats

those were with me before they were

lines on my days as I sat

20 years crossed legged

eating chocolate from vending machines

watching others my age hurl themselves

from one moment to the next

like waves that meet and

turn ever wilder

I preferred to roll my own

invite the boy who couldn’t form

complete sentences

but wrote

pretentious appealing poetry

with tight muscled drummers arms

back to my whistling dorm

to break the wood we were born upon

and his idea

he was in control

back then

carrying in my linen womb

the next twenty years

I developed an inkling for scars

battle worn and tired before

my knitting bones caught up

now you can’t scare me with your rebuke

I’ve lived beyond the yoke and tenderness of youth

but put me in an office, tighten my straps

affix the gag reflex

and watch me come undone

like a latch that appears well adhered

will spring suddenly

contents spill out aborted

across washed floor

This time will come again

yuri-shwedoff-wolf-pack-internetThe saw they used

had teeth like rabbits unaware

they were herbivores

her shell broke

like a blue egg

on turpentine floor

for the ants to summon

their legions and devour

she could smell her own fall

by the pinch of their envy

though why anyone should

be jealous she found absurd

as plates will chip

when placed on top of one another

we leave the best for last

scouring her hide with vinegar

all the holy and the ivy

thrown in pyre to await

her defeat

she tried to tell them

it’s not me you want

it’s yourselves

the competition is within

I am nothing

but a representation

the dreaming void

or lost moon

reflecting your own

do not bury me with nightshade

violet on my tongue

strangle my words

because you have none

this time will come again

as all circles are undone and reknotted

by fate and the scepter

in the wrists of those

cutting down

trees who only seek

that silence of being above

cacophony of rude arrows

felling our roots

though we strive

only

to master ourselves

 

 

The cure

vvvvvThe poison

was the medicine

the medicine

was the sickness

the sickness

killed her

without it

she could not live

 

Off kilter

30853828_1_lSociety told the woman

at 50 you cannot wear jeans

nobody wants to see your saddle bags

you should either get yourself stretched

or hide in a sack

they call it “Laganlook” but the truth is

men over a certain age ignore women of the same

culture makes invisible an entire swath

sure, 70-year-old males can re-make action movies

their wobbling muscles and toupee jolting

nobody wants to believe a woman over 50

desirable nay formidable other than as matron

or crone

that’s how it was

they said the female poets over 50 were lost

for all the ones known

many more forgotten and wind tossed

society stuck on youth

like a tick feeding off

some kind of strange timer

stuck on the first 25

but if you stand by the fire long enough

you will not stay warm you will burn

when it comes your turn

to eclipse o’er the hill

what will you have created to sustain you?

Greater solace

651d3294ace9c6e46b0b18587904b847

There you are

picture yourself

standing in a vacated room

the walls are nondescript

from the window comes a little wan sun

hardly enough for warmth

you pull yourself closer

recalling how as a child

sitting on old iron radiators in winter

they’d say you’d develop hemorrhoids

in those days

the sound of scuffed shoes running for class bell

figuring you had a few moments yet

to stare out at brick and cement

stretch out reverie

a voice inside your head

surely this isn’t all there is?

you made a pact with yourself

to get the hell out

whatever it took

gathering your books

mindful of their ticket

you forgot yourself in dream

walking past the classroom

after all

learning is better in the mind

than grind of chalk on board

some boy kicking you in the back

with sweaty socks

you knew even then

this was but a stepping stone

though if asked you couldn’t say

what of the grim facade urged you most

to escape

 

and now

all these years later

more alone than that day

when covered by childhoods vigor

and the smell of something better

just around the corner

hope has been sore in her visits

silence too often your friend

as we fall one by one out of the egg carton

we are without wings

without safety harnesses

all the others found places

in busy lives, babies, families, jobs

the weave and knot of life

whilst you stood watching out of the window

glimmering

expecting to fly

 

now in shallow rooms

artifice has left her scent

they tell you the last one has passed over

you feel it in the curve of your chest

no more hands to scoop you back

from your leaning motion to find

somewhere to breathe

where trees are ever green

sunlight full on face

obscuring all trace of bleak homes

terraced and hollow

where you can hear the flush of

neighbors loud toilet

piercing cry of another

born into fitful times

where you never understood

your own role

just the fallacy of drowning sorrows

sundays in the bar

knocking back glasses of regret

nothing could spur you faster

toward wide open space where

no trace of sorrowful city remained

 

and wherever you go

there you are

still back against the wall

still with the locked door

school girl tights bunched in your mouth

hearing muffled voices

discussing your inability to speak

how long can you hold your tongue girl?

before the need to scream

unfurled

and in one howl you swallow yourself

all the disappointment

all the lost chances

breaking through cloud

fast diminishing in oboe sky

open the storeroom of your mind

clear out those long stored hurts

preserved in obscura

 

you may feel you have nothing

but in the sundering fall of flight

we find again our urge

never to quite escape

perhaps more a reinterpretation

carrying on no more alone than before

for we are born crying in singular pitch

in each step grow further to our end

it is in the humility of knowing this

we find our greater

solace

Trust

bed-black-and-white-girl-window-favim-com-178300Slept with the light on

though in the glare

nothing was resolved

you still hated for no reason I could discern

the only thing helping me understand

is the narrowing of hearts with age

though there are people in this world

angels who walk on earth

they epitomize mercy

and remind us

our gun instincts work

choose wisely my darling

when lending your soul

trust is a child learning to walk

Permission to be destroyed

25-wasting-time

There’s an old saying, the man felt sorrow because he had no arm

until he met a man who had no leg

comparison being an uncomfortable bed mate

all of us could do with sinking to our knees

mindful our own aches in the sum of things

matter and matter less

not dismissing but appreciating

someone out there is worse off

when I feel betrayed I recall

someone else was betrayed twice as bad

when in the eighth month of pregnancy

he said I’m leaving

when I feel lonely I think

of those who lost everyone and never

regained belonging

when I feel sorrow

it is the sorrow of those who survived

concentration camps only to find light

once more

that keeps me endeavouring to do my best

even if I fall

even if I cannot always

by that I do not diminish

anyone’s hurt

but it is worth considering

if others survived

we too

can pick ourselves up

and not give permission

to be destroyed

Once we were young

There

beneath the street light

fused over with dying bugs

there

our hands met, enfolding

in paper entreaty

what would they say

if given tongues?

the lost years whistling

a familiar tune

when once we were

young

Make believe

462841f5239311cf405b65633d480136

Like kids in the playground

one pretended to be sensitive

though she threw stones

the other professed hardness

though she was made of rubber bones

the middle child

didn’t know how to play with others

she tore the stimens of pink flowers

that were yellow and heavy with pollen

rubbed it on her palms like mustard

hoping it would transport her

away from cruelties played for sport

by those broken by life growing as weeds

by the onslaught of fumes from passing cars

a toxic perfume for those with enough lead

she was made of water

they could throw her

into the sky and make it

rain with regret