The Long Road.
The Long Road.
Winding mountain road, shingles and sand,
murky afternoon, the sky leaks ink soon it
will be night, the boy drives too fast, he’s
hungry and wants to get home, later he’s
meeting his girlfriend, Saturday and dance.
It was silly really, goat on the road, should
have seen it before, he braked too hard, car
skidded, lost control. The fall was long, took
an eternity, down a canyon, where a river
waited. The goat on the road forlorn baaed,
alone and lost from its flock
the lonely heart
The Lonely Heart. . Ten years now, since they gave me her heart, eighteen, so very young, had she been free she would have been married, one or two children, a mortgaged home (a husband too) not a caged bride in the cavity an old man’s chest. Been thinking of her often lately, fallen in love with her and that is a foolish thing to do, she urgently wants to leave; blue lights and sirens, if the doctors can sway her to stay a bit longer I’ll let her dream her own dreams.
sonnet to a boulder
Sonnet to a Boulder. This big boulder in the middle of the field, puzzles me, why is it there on its own and not with its brother further down the vale? It must be a sandstone has many holes, but No mice live there, I thought it would have been perfect home for furry creatures, but crossing the field, too fraught; beady eyes and wings everywhere, not missing a thing. Guess time isn’t important for a boulder it’s summer now and it is hot to the touch but there will be no rain before October, a few months is no more than waiting for a train that’s five minutes late. It has nothing to say, but it does whistle when the wind blows.
Between worlds
Worlds of sorrow
tears, pain, helpless clenching, unclenching.
whirling, spinning out of control
as small voices get loudly violent
and say it’s best to let go. End. Put final full stops.
Worlds of daily bread
giving daily share of tasks, semblances
of one’s presence in written…
indulgences, gifts, comfort. Fitful forgetfulness.
Saying its ok, just hang in there,
what’s your problem, you fool?
Worlds of joy,
flit in and ripple down deserts,
soothe bruised souls reeling in memories
and wistfully smile at wet cheeks.
‘I fit nowhere in the two worlds’, he says.
But somehow keeps it running
On wisps of feathery hope and warm golden rays
trying so hard to clutch. Capture what is not yours to keep.
lost recollection
Lost Recollections Couldn’t find my car looked everywhere, main roads, side streets, alley ways and the back of closed down warehouses by the docks where old cars, once a family’s pride, are dumped; and memories of Sunday outing ends as bird droppings and flat tyres Silence, no one about only immobile autos, I must be dreaming, tried to wake up, couldn’t, unmoving as an abandoned family saloon could not move a muscle; a scream, as someone sinking in a mist of bland oblivion brought me back from the precipice of permanent unconsciousness. Icicle hung from the ceiling, my bed was cold it gave me no comfort, crept to the terrace to draw nutrition from the new day.
apicture
A Picture Intoxicating June day, she stands on a stone wall, sleek, shiny fur, chest white as the sunlit wall; green bushes in the background, perfection but for a darker shadow, a stalker, a harbinger of unhappiness and grief; she sees not the omen for this her moment, never mind the morrows. Blessed she was I remember her well
WHY?
Why?
Amgrossi
Why do I love you?
Why is it that I can’t get over you?
Why are you stuck in my head like a bad memory?
Why are you so into me when I am so over you?
Why can’t you let go?
Why do you want me so much?
Why do you ask idiotic questions about us?
Why do you act like such a jerk?
Why do you put so much of yourself into this relationship?
Why don’t you just get over it because I already am!
the struggle
The Struggle. My hands are brown, face tanned I fear the stigma of instituThe Struggle.
My hands are brown, face tanned
I fear the stigma of institutional
whiteness on my body;
the paleness of wilting flowers
the mark of sorrow, a bride walking
into her own oblivion;
Indoor faces looking out, shall not
touch trees or kiss the green grass
of spring.
My hands are brown,
fingers strong
I will resist.
tional whiteness on my body; the paleness of wilting flowers the mark of sorrow, a bride walking into her own oblivion; Indoor faces looking out, shall not touch trees or kiss the green grass of spring. My hands are brown, fingers strong I will resist.
homecoming
Homecoming.
I hadn’t been here for thirty years, came and put up
a new gate, it made the inhabited house look posh.
I had been spotted, didn’t think anyone remembered
me; people came, family I had never met, they were
clones, of the older generation, with new bodies and
young faces. Clean streets, their children played in
A garden of plastic trees and rubber lawn, they wore
Helmets in case of an accident. The new adults talked
about house prices, homeowners now, thought they
were rich and I wondered if the houses knew they had
become investments instead of homes. In my old room
on the attic there was a painting of me when a young
man, looked at it with some disinterest, wasn’t a pretty
back then, nothing has changed, so I must be timeless.
nearly morning
Nearly Morning. Sunday, we walked in a street where rich people live, big houses, swimming pools and well kept gardens. We paced the whole length and where not thronged by people, we didn’t see any; nor cars and agreed, if we got into money we would buy a house here, but I didn’t voice my unease that something was missing. In the night she woke me and said: “if we had money I wouldn’t like to live there after all, would you?” “No, love, we would be very lonely there, it’s a necropolis for the wealthy.” What’s necro something? “A city for the dead,” darling. “Why don’t you say so, have you been dipping into the dictionary again?” “Sorry love, it’s nearly morning, do you want a cup of tea.” “Yes, and toast, with sugar-free blueberry jam on, no butter.”
