Haunted by News

 I wanted them off the dead bodies.

Away from the unburied

mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, children.

I wanted them dead.

And I wanted the killers of the dead

dead too.

Bright thing

 It lit up the room

and made my soul sing

but no one saw it but me.

I tasted the future,

And loved the rhythm of

a beat that used to be mine.

To hysterics in Childhood

 

You were neon pink

on a bright sunny day in the rain

You were the box telly we hit on and off, 

the one which chose which channel we'd watch 

or if colour was an option for the day.

Amidst you we heard the drunken rooks nesting in the trees behind the house,

locals telling stories and falling from their perches.

You were the elastic band I wore round the crown of my head when we climbed the windmill stairs.

As if I would take off and fly!

There I stood in my turquoise dungarees with a purple patch pocket,

clutching a Kimberley biscuit, grinning

like a puppy gone shany

or helium sucked up through a birthday balloon,

left speechless on the floor, delighted by it all and delighted by nothing,

but life.

Home

 The womb beyond the mother waits,

Glowing embers in hearth, warm milk simmering in a pan.

A shared space, as I shared in my own nine month turn, each with their nurturing, warmth, feeding and care. 

Time to be rather than do or be done,

Space to see more than to look or be seen 

A den of blankets, cushions, duvets, pillows, sheets, snugs, hugs, kisses and cuddles.

No rules, except the rules: kind hands, kind feet, kind words. 

To all equal. 

To all my heart.

 To all my everything. 

My hearth, my home.

Peace comes dropping slow

Peace comes dropping slow.
You know,
I wish it would?
With every sinew, and blood vessel,
heartbeat and breath,
with each vein, in each life giving tendril,
from my bones:
coccyx, sternum,
cavicle, humerus, radius, ulna,
carpals, metacarpals, tarsals, metatarsals, and phalanges.
From my pelvis, femur, patella, tibia and fibula.
From my soul.
Peace comes dropping slow,
I wish it would.
Let's work on it.

My father's father's face

The profile of the past etched out on thick drawing paper, delicately and gently, in 1962.

I never met him.
Yet I see him now, gently cast in a new and toddling face, frowning, exploring.
I don't know him yet.

He never met you.
Lyric, he might be; scholar he is; artist, we'll see; dancer, he tries; teacher, he will be; farmer, I hope for; bee keeper, we need; father and grandfather, we pray.
Your father's face, Da. 

The past casts the future after all.

Dandelion Clock

Tick, tock, dandelion clock,
the dawning of a brand new day.
Fingers clasped on hopeful stems,
the world entire gently carried
with fragile smiles.

Tick, tock, dandelion clock,
rushed, running, turn and say:
'I love you'.
We are released, encouraged,
and so proceeding on and on.

Tick, tock, dandelion clock,
another generation
learning and growing
under the regular sun and water
of the words and gestures we use for each other.

Tick, tock, dandelion clock,
One gentle gust, the world departing,
dearly beloved,
loving mother, father, husband, wife and friend.

In everything you said and did,
we learnt from you.
Tick, tock, dandelion clock. Stop.