She plays her games
on her tablet
in the living room
with the TV on
for noise;
he sits quiet
tapping at his keyboard
in the spare room.
She's put a load
of laundry
in the dryer;
he has pizza dough
rising in the oven.
Warm uncharged atmosphere
of peace aerates
the real estate in between.
Its fertile soil
allows the grandchildren
to set roots
undisturbed
by domestic drama
and tween-age traumas.

Easter Saturday morn, turned out to be wet and forlorn
no matter the weather we're  cosy n' warm, together
Two sleeping felines intertwined twitching
                                                       ­                tails n' noses
One Nan, with knee rug, knitting bag full
                                                                ­        of wool n'lollies

One Mama baking up treats, whilst,
                                                            sing­ing bad operettas.

Then there's me and my Da,
                                                  creating a blanket castle
A mighty fort of fabric n' cushions, chairs n' tables

No other place I'd rather be this soggy, rainy day.
I am a forteener.... and a forteener I will stay.

“A woman needs to find a way of creating boundaries that is not a violation of her instinctual feeling of wholeness.”*

daring like a ballerina
simple as a peach orchard
she loves me like a daughter
from the height of wonder
I look at her with innocence
like a mother
I teach her how to stare in the sun
to see flowers of light
the fragility of colours
and how stories happen in the dark
the hardest part is letting go of knowing
reinventing the smile
words stand there not pretending
tangible, waiting to be broken
here is everything letter by letter

cruel and demanding
like a song, like a perfume in autumn
“I lend you my fairies,
you lend me your arms”
silk embraces
uncracked choices
I follow her into laughter
She follows me into tenderness
little exchanges, attunement, failures
when to draw a line
when to plunge into circles
store fat miracles
a grasshopper is coming in
propelled by the infinite desire

“you don’t have wrinkles, mama”,
she laughs
a bird came to nest in your heart,
don’t frown, mama
let’s yell to scare baubau
"should I make it yellow?"

every day she’s mapping my honesty
giving me her burden of childhood
and we found ourselves raw and dreaming
in between hearts

The iambs in pentameter will dance across the page,
But in fourteeners limp along, with extra two feet left.
Once in another lifetime, writing sonnets was the rage,
The iambs in pentameter would dance across the page.

It seems the sonnet-writer now will only show his age
As more and more write free-verse, leaving formal poems bereft.
The iambs in pentameter will dance across the page,
But in fourteeners limp along, with extra two feet left.