Honey Pot
silently
from the top board
he steps into space
a flying bomb
a heat-seeking missile
a depth charge
on a mission
knees tucked into chest
arms clasped tightly
around knees
he plunges towards
his chosen target
floating on surface
open-mouthed
gazing at the sky
dreaming his lazy way
across the summer pool
mission accomplished
he explodes
beside the floater’s head
ah
the perfect
honey pot
Brick
Red brick the universe,
red brick crumbled
sparrow crumbs now.
Red brick,
not lily-white limestone,
nor chalk,
white cliffs,
will tumble,
tugged down
by fierce tides
Red brick
and rough:
sand-paper,
the builder’s hands,
life- lines fortified,
unfettered brick dust.
Red brick,
heart, liver, lungs:
red holes, not black,
where red roses
flourish.
Red brick,
shattered into red
dust and this sun
a dwarf brick
shrinking in its
innocence.
Red bricks:
their dust become
gas giants,
Saturn’s rings,
useless wooden wagons
drawn up
in second hand westerns.
The huff and the puff:
brick shit houses,
these red brick
universes, built to last
way beyond
those dreaming spires,
that failed, will fail,
and still fail to inspire.
“Here endeth
the second lesson:
Book of Brick.”
Nec plus ultra
A womb wound
this open heart
clinging crablike
to your sleeve
a sudden surge
this weakened urge
to end it all and sever
this wander-wonder
how many times
must you jump
eyes closed
through life’s open
circus hoop
red-nosed clowns
falling off their trikes
playing
hoax after hoax
your life’s blood
leaks meekly out
dribbles from
your fingertips
drip by febrile
drip
Change
Summer walks along the garden path,
imprinting its footprints of flowers.
Green dreams wander the wind-lisped
grass with its multitudinous tongues.
Bright birds toll the morning bells
and announce a midsummer madness.
Occupational therapy, this forced feeding:
a million beaks and bellies nurtured.
All too soon, the shortening of days,
fall’s stealthy approach, the long trip home.
The moon will then swing its winter lantern.
Orion, dog at heel, will hunt his star-frosted sky.
Crows, those eternal survivors, will take salt
and the occasional meal from icy roads.
Comment:
It’s cloudy this morning and there is a chill in the air. The rowan berries are a bright yellow-turning-rapidly-to-orange. The crab apples are little red faces peering from laden tree and branch. The whole world has a sense of imminent change. Winter is never far away and the fear of frost-on-high-ground is always upon us.
My body
My body has so many rooms and you,
my love, possess me in them, wander
through them, and I see you, here, there,
everywhere, your presence a shadow
glimpsed in a mirror, or your warm touch
a breath upon forehead or cheek. Where
have you gone? Why did you leave me
here on my own to languish in your absence?
I walk from room to room, but when I knock
you open no doors, and though I seek,
I fail to find. I know you are somewhere near.
I hear your footstep on the stair, your voice
in the silence that surrounds me. My name,
a syllable or two, whispered in the way
I so clearly remember. How can it be true,
my love, that you have gone, that you have
left me here and forged ahead into another
time and space? I count the hours and days.
Will you prepare me a place? Will your face
be there to greet me? Alone, I clutch at straws,
embracing dust motes, counting the angels that
dance on the rainbows on the head of a pin.
Catch up
The mask I wear has strings
attached. Two I have tied,
two more hang down like
pigtails, swaying as I walk.
My tongue pulses round
my mouth in search of
that tooth I cracked, yet
afraid of its sharp-edged scar.
It feels as if I have lost
a part of my life and I am
running in circles looking for it.
I guess I’ll catch up with it
someday, and when I do,
I hope it will know me
and tell me who and what I am.
Meanwhile, the mask clings
heavy to my features
and prompts me in the new
role I must play. My friends
walk past me now
and do not stop to talk.
When I look in the mirror,
I no longer recognize myself.
All my ID is fake. The success
of my disguise fills my empty head
with a sudden sense of shame
and I know the sound of sorrow.
Rain
Insane, the rain
washing down
my window.
Insanity of raindrops
mixing, matching,
their Van Gogh
rainbow colors,
no artist’s eye
to select them,
just a false ear,
tin drum
to their sound.
They blur blossoms,
twist tree and bush,
water censers now
those branch ends
bending beneath
water’s weight.
Unseen, the island now,
nor visible the bay
beneath cloud blankets
wrapping them away.
Sun Worship
Worship the sun
as it rises over the hills
from whence cometh
its golden glory.
Trees and their forest,
forces older by far
than this Christian god,
walk in darkness
until touched by the sun.
Worship the sun ropes
that tie you to your daily work,
rejoice in your bondage,
for no man kills
to glorify the sun.
Sun, my father and my mother,
sunshine that floods my spirit
and enlightens my world,
here, before sunrise,
I raise my voice in a song
praising you, and your strength,
the life you give, the death
you will one day bring.
Mysterious Mist
Mysterious mist,
how I have missed you
wrapping and unwrapping
your gifts of seashore and sand.
So delicate, your will o’the wisp touch,
your fingers dampening my curls,
a delicacy of delight your butterfly kiss
laid upon forehead and cheek.
A distorting mirror in a circus
or a sideshow at the fair,
you twist things round your little fingers,
complicating our simple lives,
shape-changing them with dreams
and visions conjured from thin air.
Now you are here again, in my garden.
I welcome your presence among the trees,
your spirit enveloping the bees’ balm,
your crowning gift, soft-toned cone-flowers
where Monarch butterflies drift and reign.
Battle Axe
A battle axe, the children call her,
grim-faced, ageing, wrinkles
bone-deep scarring her skin,
a grimaced frown, much practiced,
worn like a fencing mask to keep
the world’s sharp teeth at a distance.
Over her shoulder, the mail-pouch
slung like a Viking’s shield,
swung to keep stray dogs at bay.
At her hip, mace and pepper,
twin guns in separate holsters, ready
for Rotty, cross-breed, and Pit Bull.
Wrapped in her coat of mail,
her eyes aflame, trigger finger twitching,
ever on the lookout for that one wild dog
to run the gauntlet of her gaze
and launch its all-out, mad dog attack.
Comment: I was disappointed with my earlier version(s) of this poem, entitled Mail Lady, and wanted a stronger, more forceful set of images that hinted at the perils of dog attacks on mail (and fe-mail [sic]) workers. This is the result.
