Poem#24 You

The last light of day

illuminates your hand,

long fingers, short nails.

Hands that spell out

that you are a man,

other to me, my own hand is

lost in yours and yet

fits as it should.

 

Shadow is on your face,

but the gleam is in your

eyes, the windows to your

truth and sincerity. I feel your smile,

your smile, your lips drip honey and

honey and jewels, tones

of tenderness, whispers

of need for my love for you.

 

The heavy air lazily stirs

the wind chimes, the gentle

music almost lost to us. We

talk and are silent, both are

our connection. Touch is enough,

though listening to you feeds

me, nourishes. Your leg arches

over mine, I am safe, understood,

my home is you.

 

 

Poem#23 Bard

Not the day of his birth, his coming to this world,

but the date his christened William Shakespeare.

Now four centuries since he passed away.

 

He dwelt among folk of many races,

since trade with the east brought spice,

cloths, religions, philosophies.

Thus he wrote a richness that few have matched.

 

Puns and satire, he played with words,

and turned roles of gender right around in

‘Romeo and Juliet’ – she was eager, he the passive.

It’s a ridicule of a love story of those times.

Quick of wit and dryness, it is still thought

to be a love story. He has fooled the experts

til this day!

 

Women faired not well – compliant daughters

or nagging wives. Oh, yes, true to the times he

was a good misogynist! Controlling fathers, thwarted

suitors.

 

But the language he coined for us, so rich, moving,

tragic, fun.We speak them daily and remember not

that we owe them to the Bard

Poem#19 The Sun Cries

A Princess is born to wealth, comfort,

ease and privilege. Just down the road

a child dies of injuries from his mother.

Six thousand miles away, a child dies of

starvation, her cousin maimed by a bomb,

their mothers raped to death.

Journeys are made across an unkind sea.

In the bright blue sky, the sun cries.

 

Poem#17 Also…Poet

He comes from a broken home –

the child to fix a marriage of huge egos.

He was two and his sister a

decade older, so he was like an only child, and

became the family mascot –

the clown, craving love, validation.

Attention seeker, he could draw,

he could act, he was gifted and

precocious. He tried art as a

career, photography too, but

no… Then he realised he was

writing poetry as well as acting.

Mostly the fool. He mastered

depreciation, the joke at his expense

so that he would be liked and loved.

(There are holes in his soul.)

He also mastered poetry, and how!

My favourite living poet…

Because he acts, he can be caught

off guard, and can be ferocious.

Few people know him, they are lost

in his charm which he has by the

spade and his poetry – so clever

in every possible way.

He is still unhealed. Still the two

year old craving attention.

Poem#16 One Thousand Cranes

Make a wish, Japan.

Make your paper cranes.

Broken bridges, fallen homes,

Lights are out, don’t let hope die.

Was it cranes

That placed you on the ring of fire?

Two shakings in two days

as the earth fights itself.

You must weep, Japan.

Then set about folding

one thousand cranes.

 

Poem#15 Fairytale Ending

That wonderful, unbreakable, glass slipper

which fell from her foot unscathed

Why did it stay under the spell whilst the

dress, the carriage and even her hair

returned to their normal state?

Why was there a decree that every woman

in the land should try on the unsmashed shoe?

Who would expect maids or cleaners to attend

a ball, unless they were in on the plot?

Poem#14 Nights Lately

In the early hours I looked out my window,

the ink black sea, the sky crowded with stars.

The glow of the Mother Ship was coming through

the harbour mouth.

I knew it because for seven nights the sound like

trucks had filled my ears. Neighbours have said

they were for the slurry, exposed by the extreme low

spring tide but I knew it was a gathering of specimens,

of humans, chosen to be taken and observed.

The Mother Ship was to fetch them all.

I left my window. I would have peace now.

Poem#13 The Bird

As a child, I recall coming home with my family

finding a dead bird lying on the ground below a

large window.

Its neck was broken, my Dad advised , hurrying

to remove it from our sight, but somehow handing

me a handkerchief. Why would a bird break its neck

flying? I pondered until Dad came into the house.

Learning that it had flown into the large window,

I expected that the glass would be removed to stop

any other bird doing the same.

Can birds be so unhappy that they kill themselves

by flying into window panes? What worries did they

have, were they bullied by their babies, had they no

home, did they have to eat food they hated?

I imagined a cemetery for birds with broken necks

who had despaired of life. I wept for many nights,

knowing I, too, would gladly fly into a pane of glass,

treasuring my Dad’s handkerchief.