Dad

He gave me life
then abandoned me to it
He wasn’t there enough
So we could be there too
I remember his face
Wrinkles, rogue hairs protruding
Close enough to reach out, touch them
warm. Me on the cold metal bed
The distance a chasm
He, wheeled over the other side.

At four I adored him
By nine I missed him
At thirteen put him on film
Sixteen tore him down again
Twenty-one: a reconciliation
He’d been gone too long by thirty-one.

Sometime the circle touches sides
His face a sudden flash in dreams
Arms encircle me,
Squeezing out night tears.
I thought they’d be dry by now.

He taught me strong
He taught me well
Don’t give up, no matter what
Above all, believe.
A hollow reassurance:
He did, and still he left me
Early.

When I feel him,
He’s still smiling
Over the other side he waits, watches
Says ‘that’s my girl’
I’m always here, you’ll find me
And I know
When it’s time, I will.

Grandad

Goodbye

Peace for him was a slow withdrawal
Blood struggled viscous
Red taken over by white
Then turning blue.
Next skin, paper thin, also objected,
And space between bone
Ensured distance from earth reduced.

Health fell off him
Mind struggled to cope
But (thank god) stayed as mum did
‘Til just before the very end.

When, thin and tired, he proclaimed:
‘I must get out of here, I must leave this place’
He didn’t mention the room
Or even the house,
Death lacks time and space.

That afternoon he sat, like always,
in his comfy chair,
Cushion replaced muscle,
Dog nuzzled, nursed, instead of wife,

He closed dull eyes,
And lulled by the telly,
With short sharp breaths
Gave up his fight for life.

The Myth

The myth

Seen that film sliding doors?
Fuck, it's a myth.
More likely she sat down,
while he stood,
They never found each other,
safe in opposing ends of the carriage
or perhaps, worse
They both sat opposite. Then each
busied themselves
pretending the other didn’t exist.

Nails

Painted nails

Old face
New ring
Smile on her lips
Let the journey begin

Eyes shut
Others wide
Take in the world
As past her it glides

Hands clasped
Nails pink
On them the wrinkles
Of what makes her tick.


Blood Red

Red fingernails of my mum
I remember them clasped around me

Tightly hugging
so nothing bad could get in

Now my fingernails are painted
Red
The blood that beats through her
beats through me

I can clasp my hands around
someone else
But sometimes the bad stuff
still gets in.

Rain

I love the rain…
Not the drizzer-ly sort that soaks
you-wet-slowly-but
the kind like love should be
it/gets/you/wet/hard/and/fast
and you stand shi-ver-ing afterwards
Your warmth contrasting c-c-cold
Acid starbursts on skin. Behind eyelids
It’s closest relative is hate, really. Strange
In ten cities the feeling
And when it’s done, almost stopped
you’re left a smell cling-ing to skin
Darkness. Wetness
The salty sweat of the earth
And feel everything is waiting,
GROWing, again.
Back to the beginning,
re-newed.
I love the rain.

The couple

The couple

Let’s come to an agreement,
You and I,
I’ll buy the ring
If you’ll be easy on the eye.

If you cook then
I might clean
And we’ll never let anything
Come in-between.

But the happiest arrangement,
When will you see?
Is if I love you
And you were to love me.

The pen is almighty

The pen is almighty

With my pen hand I give birth
Fight battles
Win wars
Feel emotion, hopes, fears
With my pen-hand I dream
or look back
with the perspective of years
With my pen-hand I’m as old as I feel
or as young as I want to be
Male or female
Normal or mad
With my pen hand
I bring my Dad back to life
Or die with him again
Minute by minute
With my pen-hand I love
am normal
or unfaithful to my dreams
With my pen-hand everything’s peachy
Or twisted emotion
of I don’t know what
With my pen-hand I make friends
Or kill them off
With my pen-hand I’m psychiactrist
or full of innocent wonder, like a child
With my pen-hand I cry
Or am happy
In a single sentence like this one.
I hold my pen in my hand
With my pen-hand I am.

The Storm Ant

THE STORM ANT

For us love’s the beginning
and sex an expression
For them,
Heralded by a sunny day
heat overtaken by death
They mate, midair
an epiphany of winged angels
Once so high
to crash and die
Icarus-like
- majestic to the end
their function,
Fulfilled.

Tube

Tube

Who can say they love the tube?
A bubble hurtling underground
To-ing and fro-ing all the while
Not gaining time but wasting days
Hated by all who sit upon
While off to work it gets them, anon.

Whoever had the idea to travel so
had their brain scrambled
Yet the idea caught on quick
so then many cities copied it.

And people still travel round and round
on the forsaken underground.