you ask me
How did you get your sister to be so
deep-eyed, out-smarting, alone-
in-the-world, high-demanding, queen’s neck
You wonder how

I helped her become
a feeling heart, a keeper-upper;
a give-you-upper when
you hurt her. A think-it-over,
space-keeper, knows-your-
thoughtser, love-me-harder-
or-not-at-all.


I wonder how
I didn’t **** her.
I wonder how she
kept her head up,
didn’t **** me.
Because
to create a harder, healed heart
you must break it first.

I
must
just
trust

What makes a salad
salady? It can't be the salad itself:
lettuce leaves
us confused with
fruit salad,
broccoli salad
and coleslaw
(which isn't even a salad - or is it?).
Perhaps "salad" is the scrumpy sound
it makes when you munch on the mixture?
But what about
banana salad,
potato salad,
and tuna salad?

Should we still believe
in a definitionless dish,
or should we better define it?

Frailty of Life

How quickly is your warm
muscled arm carrying
everything you care for
and caressing my heart
broken.

Magic Flowers

There's a bug in the house
and a big one too;
has our tummies curl up
and us running to the loo.

I wish I had flowers -
magic ones of course -
then I'd brew us a tea
that'd shoot the bug out the door.

I read so much of herbs
that can heal anything;
flu, pox, diarrhoea,
broken spine, lost limb...

But they grow in deep woods
where sunrays don't touch the floor,
and the books don't speak of maps
or if they exist (anymore).

So till the enchanted woods are found
I'll stay safe at home,
and drink rooibos tea with plenty o' honey
and write another poem.

1.

Pain
when felt
hard enough, ceases
to be just that:
painful





2.

The sensation of
pain sometimes seems awfully
pleasant to my bones






3.

A sting makes my life
bend in beautiful
imperfection


I sip it
like a lollipop





4.

It's like the
grate of yearning
is more pleasant than
the earning,
tasting,
breathing
the dream.

Dear Sleep,

I haven't seen you since
that night in September.
(when I started to slip away.)

The twinkling lights at midnight
remind me of the good
times we've had
together, before I became
their acquaintance.

At first I didn't miss you.
I was a (wounded) bird
broken free
from its cage,
ascending in wild flight
to the clouds.

Now I'm in the clouds,
and it's misty and
I can't see.
I am starting to see

I am lost
without you. I'm lonely.
I have nobody to keep me company
at night.

And I just want to say
I'm sorry.

I will give up _ .
I will grow my feathers back.
I promise.

Please, come back...?

Yours
missing you,

                                me.