youth

her legs offend them,
bringing to mind a youth forgotten
or which they wish to forget

her hair is subtle protest, they are sure,
deliberate insult
carefully concealed

an avalanche of skateboards
breaks her reverie,
the boys fly past
not one escapes the smell of her,
the old ladies sniff

she smiles,
which they are sure is rude, somehow,
and glides past
carrying with her
their long-buried dreams.

12 Dec. ’09 – Chado

The Mangroves and the Rose

strange, black
trellis
creeper, rose-vine
thorny tendrils
curling… spinning…
along the
overhanging, this is…
what?
Dead wood, forests that breathe
in collection,
no single sentient being
each tree
a cell
in the everpresent collective
thought.
Be wary, rose
making your
(through the mangrove swamp)
careful way

(through the mangrove swamp)

March ’06

The Night and The Sky

This is the place,
Where young night leaves the sky in its bold, bright blue,
The round horizon half gold, half dark,
lines the brilliantly blue day-dress of the sky,
Which the night felt
would be a pity to dispel.
“We’ll make love dressed tonight,”
he whispers,
and leaves his mark gently
yet strikingly
on her silk blue belly,
Shining with whiteness like a tiny smile,
a hint of what’s to come.

Later she darkens;
Night is a lustful creature, and she
is not a strong-willed one to
resist temptation.
So she dances and gives in to him,
And finally lays herself upon the red-dust landscape,
sleeps in the rippled dunes.

August ’05

The Pied Piper of Anti-Society

He came one day, and broke our doors down;
Soundly and calmly he came
for what we cling to and hold dear,
our last illusion of safety-
-when the streets are dangerous,
“not just at night” and the country is unpredictable-
-the home of our houses.

We take comfort in them,
in our unsafe, uncertain society
A man’s home is his castle
and to children they are safe;
we build ourselves the image
of an impenetrable  sanction, oasis
which is at the same time
Welcoming, and warm.

Nothing is safer than our wooden doors
with thin glass panels
Our thin windows,
as long as the key is turned and
the tiny bolt of metal slides across.

For people do not break into houses-
especially not when you’re home,
it’s not done.  though it could be,
A psychological society thing, I suppose,
(and a fear of being caught-
not the punishment, but the
disapprovement of… everyone else,
becoming and outsider.)

But he cared not.

He was bored out of gold which cares
not for money;
never cared what other minds thought
but sought only to make them happy
or show them the world outside their comfort zones.
He bent our locks,
Broke through windows with one bound fist,
Very serenely and naturally,
for it was an everyday thing for him.
He smiled, invited himself in
Complimented my mother’s figure,
Made himself at home, sat down
And accepted stilted offerings of a drink,
Asking for black tea.

(We knew nothing else than to offer a visitor drinks,
but no-one had ever asked before!
The accepted answer being “I’ll have whatever
you’re having.”)
He declined a spoon,
set aside the saucer,
and held his mug fully in both hands to warm them.
He added sugar with his fingers
And shook his dandruff out
on our black leather sofa, delighting
in its volume, lightness, and patterns.

Mother was scandalised.
He paid her more compliments,
then invited us all out with him into the world
To live life.
And show it to others.

I was the only one willing.  He smiled at my parents,
crushed the phone, and left.
Like a Pied Piper he led a crowd
of people dancing, singing,
some naked
many in love
mostly young and very old.

I loved him, and we found him wonderful,
but I did not entirely trust him.
And rightly so.
For he was unpredictable, wild,
Like a swirl of wind lifting dead leaves
to make them dance.
He did what he pleased,
broke laws, rules and superstition alike.
Nothing was inappropriate and we
all
loved
each other

August ’05

“We made to climb the moon”

We made to climb the moon
I scampered high; she faltered
And, in hesitation, fell.
I looked back, I looked forward
The peak and goal was oh so near…
I raced to touch, and then raced back
She, hanging by one fingernail
Was lost before I halfway gained.
Lost her grip, and gracefully
Spiralled off into deep space.
I watched her fall with horror
Then straightened up.  Did I not win?
Did I not reach the tip alone?
I smiled out loud – she was spilt milk!
(Then scarpered home, rotting with guilt.)

June ’05

Laughterplay

She slipped behind
the shadows, borne
On a sighing wind;

Which cut the rippled
air, the skin
Of a thousand breaths;

A grove of lilies
impossibly curled
On old stone walls;

And she knew the truce
the old agreement
Etched into
the Perhaps
of the Maybe…

Then she reappeared above
my old rocky ledge
To grin down at me with razor eyes;

pausing in flight…

February ’05

Telinthé

Admittedly, I do not know.
You ceased to soak in coarse
     winds…
long while before I ever
concieved the thought
of thrashing.
Of kicking up the saltwater,
the sand,
Spraying invisibly across the shore
and water’s surface,
Exerting my every… fear
With not a single visible result.
And you looked upon me,
Telinthé,
Prince,
Prince of all that speaks in tongues.
A seperate glancing moment
Struck you hard across the face.
And stinging fright became you.

You looked so glorious as you fell!
Apparition of light!
Your gracious face
Outlined in beauty!
Never was there such a brow
or cheek;
Never such contours of flesh
curved and rippled
Telinthé, prince,
your cherry-lips opened once.
Blue eyes reached out to me,
the moment you perished
On the sharp, foaming sea-blossoms,
The white horses of the waves.

Now I have replaced you with another.
She has amber eyes,
A smile like your step
When the shoreline was awash with silver shells.
And oh! Telinthé!
She is so beautiful, when e’er she cries!
And oh! Telinthé!
How flawless her face shall be when she dies!

February ’05

Beneath The Windowsill

I hide beneath the windowsill,
Trembling, waiting.
My monster breathes into the cracks,
Hot breath melts the latches.
Eyes searching, nose searching,
Every fibre searching…
Cowering beneath rosewood,
Invisible am I,
Scarce dare to breathe…

I stooped beneath the windowsill,
Reaching, fumbling.
My monster lay upon my palm,
I laughed and tossed him in the fire.
Eyes burning, teeth burning,
Every fibre burning…
Leaning on rosewood,
Nonchalant am I,
Brazen and utterly terrified…

December ’04

You, Poet

The prince raised his finger
And pointed.
“You, poet!
Write me a poem!”
So the poet bowed his head,
And obliged to do so.
He crafted and weaved
His language.
He spun magic of gardens and forests
Suns and moons,
Stars and bright city lights.
Of heated dancing,
In summer nights,
Of the ocean,
Of God,
Of love.
he painted a scene in the air
Of brilliance
And colours never before seen.

He presented his gift.
But the king tapped his foot.
“This will not do;
I asked you to write me a poem
So write a poem about me!”
He pointed his finger
And sent him away,
So the poet obliged to do so.
He bowed his head,
And worked without rest.
He created an epic ballad,
A mastery,
A song,
He moved the words with his hands
As gentle as a shepherd.
The story was of a wasp,
His journeys and triumphs,
His greatness, cruelty,
And a single two lines
Told of his songbird,
The one he killed.
It was a feast of glorious verse.

He presneted his gift.
But the old man tapped his foot.
“This will not do;
I commanded for a great poem,
A poem about me.
This is a faerie story;
Some piffle about a puny insect,
And a bird.”
And he pointed his finger.

“And least you noticed the bird,”
said the poet,
Shaking his head.
And it was promptly cut off.

November ’04

“Look” Said The Prince

“Look,” said the prince,
“A poet there sits.
A poet, how quaint.
His words are of love,
Of wooing and romance,
Of warm summer suns and sweet winter moons.
How quaint, a poet.”

But the poet in question
Was deep in depression.
His words were of blood,
Of longing for death,
Of chill summer moons and harsh winter suns.
Yet the prince walked away with a smile that day.

And the poet was glad
To have pleased an
Innocent
Mind
Holding
Power.
And his life remained
Another day.

November ’04