Thursday, November 27, 2014

Fouling the nest


Mother I float in you
Immersed in life's source
I feel cradled, welcomed
Loved
My body is
Rocked ever so
Slightly by your
Gentle waves
On this near still day
The cries of nearby birds are
Muffled by the
Water lapping past my ears
I breathe in deeply inhaling your
Salt tang
As I open my eyes to
Stare into your sky
I am
Home

My outstretched hand is
Touched then
Fingers enveloped by
Something passing by
And I do not need to look to
Recognise it
I crumple the chip packet into the
Pocket of my shorts for
Later disposal as the
Wind changes and my calm is
Assaulted by the smell of
Outflow pipe not too far away
I am sorry
Mother
For what we are doing to you
I will go now

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Lament

he is dead, she is dead, they are gone

the time for eulogy and reflection has begun

and i ask if you remember

if you remember how they could satirise with such wit and precision that the subject of their barbs would have no choice but to concede and laugh along

and i ask if you remember

if you remember how with a sweeping stroke of the same pen they could capture a mountain range with such clarity that you could hear eagles cry soaring far above in the clouds

and i ask if you remember

if you remember how they could transcribe their feelings and senses to the page with such accuracy and attention to detail that you could feel their lover’s caress, smell their hair

and now they are gone

and i ask if you remember

if you remember where you were when you heard

if you remember what you were doing when you were told

if you remember the pain deep inside

the sudden emptiness within

as the realisation took hold

if you remember whose hand you held for comfort

as the tears began to fall

i ask if you remember



and i know that you do not



for this is the lament for the unknown artist

the lament for the ones for whom there are no accolades for the writers of their eulogies

for the ones for whom recognition was not central to the creative urge

for the ones whose creativity did not extend to the creation of a name for themselves

this is the lament for the ones who painted, and sculpted, and wrote, and drew, and sang, and played, and danced, and created beauty with their very lives because to do otherwise would be to deny the burning in the centre of their souls

this is the lament for the loss of those for whom the full realisation of what has passed will never be known

this is the selfish lament

the lament that in our ignorance of their existence we have been spared the pain of knowing what has gone from this world

the lament for that pain

the pain that would have marked just how enriched our lives could have been



Monday, February 20, 2012

to those i have not known


note: orig written 1998 - true story and unedited



I did once see a man standing in the street
An eccentric? A bum? Supposed derelict
Not breaking stride I passed him without giving him his worth
My ears they were not open to the words that issued forth

When second time I saw him, a discovery of kind
In a room full of wordsmiths this gentleman I spied
And my ears were finally open to everything I heard
A warrior was he, his weapons were his words
And now I hear I will not see this giant for a third

And only now I think of those I've passed without a thought
And think now of the beauty in this life I have not sought
So, as you go through life, do please stop and look around
Because beauty is within us, and in this world it does abound


Wednesday, November 30, 2011

squeaky wheels



I am surrounded by
Squeaky wheels
Getting greased with
My blood

But nobody notices my
Pock-marked skin
The barbs of these
Prickly bushes around me
Tear at my skin leave
Noxious residue behind to
Fester until
Coming to a head
Ichor release offends those
Who caused the
Infection

Yet those squeaky wheels
Cry out for my blood
Not recognising the
Two way street
That they travel upon


Friday, October 7, 2011

uniformity


The pants of my
Suit
Are a
Little
Too tight

In the morning
When I put it on
At work
I breathe out
Just a little
To button my pants

At my desk
Other people’s problems are
Investigated
Managed
Or fixed

Demands are made
For errors to be fixed
By those who
Made them happen
Responsibilities of
Other’s
Laid at
My
Desk

Next to my
Impersonal
Workspace a window
Holds a view of an
Outside world
Continuing without
Me

When the time comes
And my computer is
Shut down
And my work day
Draws
To a close

I take off my
Suit put my
Home clothes on
And breathe in
Just a little
Again


Thursday, June 2, 2011

An aroma, more than a flavour


My dad died in his kitchen
Collapsed in a heap in
The corner near the kettle
Vomit on the cupboards and floor

Outside a patch of driveway was
Dug up to prepare for
Inlay of nearby bricks
His mattock carelessly dropped
To one side

The paramedics and cops
Think he felt a twinge
A bit ill
While digging
Went inside to relax
Grab glass of water
Too late

But not me

On the table
Next to his armchair
When we cleaned up the next day
After the coroner took him away
Before our mum could see
We found a
Single chocolate biscuit
His evening with cuppa treat
He was making a cup of tea
Died doing something he loved


Friday, April 8, 2011

Meeting (2000)


transfixion not an option but a mandatory state of being as my eyes meet yours, as i look into them, fall into them, your soul's windows locking me into orbit around you


we talk, converse, learning of each other, every word issued from between your lips, those lips, a tiny hook, piercing me, drawing me towards you


uncontrollable muscular spasm deep within abdomen, shiver down spine, as body responds to delicate touch of fingertips on fingertips, idly playing together, a herald, a prelude to a further physical connection


lightning's fire of energy burst as lips first touch on lips, saliva sluicing pouring down parched throat at first taste of each other


and eventually, finally we are alone


and it is time


the world around us ceases to be, clothing discarded to reveal our true raiment, exposed to touch of hand and of gaze


kissing again, my fingers in your hair, arm around your body, the tension, anticipation, hunger in our bodies obvious as i hold you against me


our hands reaching touching tracing exploring stimulating every area of skin we can reach from this embrace


my mouth finds neck, and shoulders, and throat, as we continue to explore each other’s geography


in time hands gentle caress of your breast, response to touch digging into my palm and then my tongue as mouth follows hands lead, downwards


over ribs, across abdomen, tongue in navel, teeth on hips, fingers inside thigh, play with soft downy hair, feeling heat against hand from prominent pubic mound


font at which i now sup with fervour best described as religious, sweating, head swimming in your musk, momentary loss of coordination, shock waves of pleasure racking my frame as you respond in kind


and finally without cue, as if instinctively knowing it was time, we break from that embrace into another more complete, a merging of bodies, a physical penetrative joining so intense it is almost a metaphor for how much we are becoming a part of each other, you are as inside me as i am inside you


as we move together, rock together, entwined around each other, moving as one in ways so intense, so complete, so complex, as to rival the Gordian knot


until we surmount union's pinnacle at which we reach out, cry out, let go together and i orgasm with intensity greater than that of when first i held pubescent phallus in hand with curious intent, and slipped out of consciousness


and beyond, not withdrawing, not loosening in the slightest that climactic embrace, as one being we float nameless on oblivion's lukewarm sea