for Marius and Dan
You came to tell me that Dan was dead.
We sat in silence as I watched you try,
But your whole body felt it,
And with my desk between us, I watched you cry.
I had met your best friend and liked him too.
I too could have loved him, I believe,
But however we felt it,
He was gone and we were left to grieve.
Then my sympathy and sorrow were alloyed –
Unexpected gladness threatened to offend.
But I must own that I felt it:
A sharp joy to see a man weep for a friend.
1d ago
Jun 4, 2026 at 6:24 PM UTC
Soft to my touch and arum mild –
let common grief wash by –
come, be still, soft child.
Far from day's probing light,
we are quite apart – a node in time –
in the velvet belly of the night.
As against my chest you doze,
on my neck your mantra breath
whispers peace, sighs repose.
The parent's arms make a nest;
this I understand:
the secure child takes its rest.
But an infant on the arm
into the father's breast
pours a soothing balm.
When cares my weary spirit chafe,
how does a baby make
a grown man feel so safe?
3d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 5:27 PM UTC
In the veggie patch,
below the fig tree boughs,
a swarm of specks swirls in warm afternoon light.
They must have wings because they fly
in suggestive patterns and spiral purposes,
but anatomy is indiscernible in this miniature spectacle.
On my desk,
below daddy-long-legs’ webs,
there is a graveyard of specks, each shrouded in silk.
I suspect these specks are from the veggie patch,
but I cannot say, for they too are featureless in smallness,
and drained of vitality by the long-legged specks.
If I were now to step outside,
I could spectate the night sky twinkling –
a spectacular universe of specks,
yet each speck its own specimen.
I could speculate on their significance,
or simply respect this domed speck-spectrum.
Speckles of age grow on my skin.
A dark spectre hovers behind me
while below, granular Earth specks await my return.
I am but a bio-speck, on a small blue speck,
in a cosmic blizzard of specks,
yet I swirl with all others in pattern and purpose.
7d ago
May 29, 2026 at 6:13 PM UTC
Cold gun metal, smooth gun wood, heavy gun weight
were stimulus and power to childish ardour
for my uncle's gift: an air gun, a toy to alter fate.
The rifle shone with gun-metal's potent blue aura.
It prescribed its purpose, the use that was rational.
A dove's plump innocence invited my aim.
The pellet struck and disabled, but was not lethal.
The bird’s wretched flap-flap evidenced pain.
A second shot only made the flutter bloodier.
I grasped the dove’s head and wrung its neck.
It lay in my hand, opening and closing its beak.
I dashed its skull against a post. Then only was it dead.
And yet, a small creature to every child's altar I would herd,
if it could staunch the desire to **** as deftly as my bird.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 5:14 PM UTC
Four years old and short of breath,
in a tented bed at the end of the ward,
the terror of separation in check only
because Mother had told me she would be
there in the morning, first thing.
But she wasn't, and at last I just wailed
across the receding rows of sick children
and they, like sympathetic strings,
howled back in atonal harmonics.
The bulging matron shouted: "SHUT UP!",
and grumbled loudly about “that brat”.
Later, when Mother arrived,
the matron handed me a toy
with a smile,
that did not reach her eyes.
May 24
May 24, 2026 at 5:59 PM UTC