Part of the Landscape
Stepping into your underwear
your thoughts are of the dead
Pulling up your trousers
of the dying . . .
Sliding into a sweater
of the crippled . . .
Tying your shoes
of those filled with tumors. . .
Throwing water onto your face
of the crumbling old. . .
Looking at your sinister face
of cancerous bodies. . .
Combing your hair straight back
of stroke and brain death. . .
Studying your cynical eyes
of the blind. . .
Watching gravity turn your lips down
of frailties of the flesh.
This is it? This is the horror then?
You smile.
You still have most of your teeth
You cock your hat at a rakish angle,
tell death to kiss your arse.
You sling your coat over your shoulder,
walking till things are unknown to you.
Very tired you fall asleep sheltered
by flamingo-colored trees.
Under red moonlight you rise refreshed,
walk through purple flowered fields.
Standing at the bridge’s apex
you stare down into luminescent water.
In fading red moonlight you can’t remember
your face anymore.
A black stone is dropped in the pool.
There are no concentric circles at all.
Slowly you become part of the flamingoes
feeding on the purple landscape.
Nothing around you moves at all.
rate this poem: 
No Place Here
He has no place in my life.
His stubborn Irish way
His scowl, his smile
His gravelly voice
Filled with amusement
And teasing…
No place.
My husband warms me,
Daughters’ laughing peals
Through the hallway
Making me smile;
This man has no right
To invade my mind
As if he were important.
The days and months away
Are supposed to heal me.
The moments shared
Are supposed to grow dim
And fade away
Like melting snowflakes
On a warm windowpane…
He has no place here.
rate this poem: