In his room he grasps the threadbare coverlet,
The thinness of his fingers exaggerated by knotted joints
not unlike the slubs of coarse cotton in his clutches.

No sun shines in this windowless cell.
Night offers no stars to count.
No luminous clock keeps time.

Unrested, his head in strange surroundings lifts to look.
"This is not my bed.
These are not my possessions.
The glass does not reflect my image."

The lamplight's glare offends his eyes.
The blue beaker has a sharp edge.

This unfamiliar room has seen a single week of usage
meant for new beginnings to find his feet.
Yesterday, his leaden slippers stopped shuffling.

A slam!
Someone is talking too loud.

No-one can hear him silently screaming
as he passes through the closed door.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

You will know the house,
Caught up in a spell of tales played out for a century or more
Within earshot of whispering catacombs
‘*** mortuis in lingua mortua’
You can’t miss it –
Architecturally complex, ornate with ormolu,
Elevated, enigmatic, a work of art.
You’ll be enchanted
But take heed, its façade will beguile you.

There is no sweetness of honeysuckle,
No singing of ascending larks to embolden the heart.
The plot is strewn with hen-bane, stinging nettles, snakeroot.
Generations tell of a skinny hag feeding on innocence,
A path scattered with ashes of children
Whisked away with a broom of silver.

Don’t dare to stray beyond its palisade of porous bones.
Don’t bide your time admiring its guilded thistle.
Appreciate if you will, this well-crafted masterpiece from several angles,
then make a hasty escape to Viktor’s Great Gate at the end of the walk.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

Her present universe reflects an insurmountable challenge.
See how she struggles, climbing then sliding back on her alpine *****.
Climbing then sliding,
climbing, sliding.
How relentless her microscopic brain.
How miraculous such a diminutive creature evokes our human emotions.
Poor hopeless thing. She is the center of my attention.
She can count on all eight of her fuzzy legs that a sherpa rescue is at hand.

I toss in a towel.

Aware of oppressor, not saviour, she contorts her body,
covers her eyes with her legs. Screws herself into a dried raisin.
A class act if ever I saw one!

When the sound of thunder ceases to rattle the bath
she cautiously unfurls, stretches her joints,
then scurries over the snowy fibres.

Only then does a frisson of fear creep across my flesh.






copyright © Caroline Grace 2011

We are stubborn oak, weathered by time;
the sea in our roots;
indelibly etched with histories;
generations of shriveled feet entrenched in shifting sand;
ankles manacled by smug doctrine-
a vanity of wigs;
a conceit of hollow gestures;
a chaos of language
caught at the throat by immortal diamonds.

…...

Behind the darkened mirror
sits shadows of lost children cowardly nailed;
confined to straddle a pen of brittle palings.
They sway both ways (from side to side)
singing lullabies to a faceless doll:

“Sleep my little one, sleep...”

Never to sleep.
We are destined to eternal night,
weeping for escape from discordant ghosts
wreathed with barbs,
sharp reminders of The Hidden One.

…...

Are you prepared for a reading?

I see fattened thieves squeal
to redolent notes of Victory that is 'The Hymn of Life'.
Puppets,  no longer orchestrated, become their own Masters,
no longer believers of illusions.
Then stepping through window's shattered glass,
discover the New Child
illuminated by an astonished look,
dancing in the gushing fountain of Delight.

Only then will the beginning become the end.

A woman drew herself up from wrecked wood at the bottom of the ocean;
whispered sea-songs into the wistful ear of a long lost love;
shook her locks 'til his heart beat faster;
looked longer than she should into the deep pools of his pleading eyes.

"I will call you when I want to;
I will call you when I want."

Cooled his temples;
breathed her watery breath
as silvered beads streamed down his shocked skin.

                                       .......

Rumors rock an empty drifting boat;
a glazed shell faced with priceless pearl
broken from its moorings,
strangled by a knotted rope.

"You have not chosen me, but I have chosen you"

Hold fast the bestowed gift,
your Quinquireme of stowed treasure.
Protect its precious structure.
"Who are you, the one who stripped my soul?
Who is the third who stole yours?"  

                                          .........

B­roken from netting I lie
a beached starfish on burning sand,
wishing the waves to wash me
back through Time's receding current
to find the silence that once was;
to turn away before the sacrifice,
before the Eye of the storm.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2010

They came in search of incredible sun,
seduced by cicadas and an easy time;
extraneous baggage with nothing to declare.
Two days in:
Sister Rose shrivels on her browning stem;
survives on lettuce leaves and cheap wine.
Pitiable by design, knowing perfectly
she's past her beauty max.
At her feet:
The blue pool cups cured hide
of idle heat-crazed beast
unleashed from his computer belt-
a doughboy moulded to his insubstantial boat-
afloat for fourteen days!
Entwined-
my crazy brother reclines with his latest lover
to share 'delightful' elderflower champagne
through a single straw,
****** together by their eyes.
And in the shade:
mother sits it out in floral silk,
sustained by seventy deniers
and her would-have-liked ideals-
the shadow of a lattice grill tatooed across her brow.

Then as the just deserts arrive,
and darted looks are handed round,
I glower at the heat - crazed ground
and muse-  'it's time to go,'

........but they would never forgive me..

Harvested-
a basket
of ruby jewels!

Here I stand in the kitchen,
a chilled mother with warm thoughts,
easing tissue-thin skins
from slithers of moist flesh.

Birdsong.
Peaceful solitude.
Time unrolls its red carpet.

Considerably reduced,
I slip a few scarlet streaks
into a bone-white bowl.
A familiar voice calls me to the garden.
"Tea dear!"
but I hunger for something stronger.

A rush of love
flies like an arrow
to pierce silence

Suddenly,
season's first sun;
a subtle change of spectrum

Dappled light plays on white walls.  Cotton blanket spread, cool beneath us, we sit in shadow's sanctuary to sip on tea.  Cascades of Jasmine; essence of the garden,

petals plucked
out of the blue.
Afternoon delight.

Between the cool-quarried kitchen
and paint-faded south facing door
runs a windowless wall
sugar-papered with childhood dreams.

Memories of roughly folded gifts
squirreled in satchels,
crossed creases still intact;
curled corners fixed with shiny pins.

Luminescent paint heartens the darkness of a pitch grotto
anticipating a flicked switch
to illuminate dimmed histories
of abstract symbols, visionless figures and countless fingers.

The small pink fists that captured
Time's most precious pieces,
now live with vaguely painted hope
of sheering unsteady walls
in their uncertain world.

When day closes on late shadows
and small hilltop houses stand as flat silhouettes,
their blinking eyes squinting towards the valley floor
badged with late-grazing grey sheep,
my father stands at ease, hands burrowed in soil-grained dusty pockets,
chin tilted towards moist fields of churned clay,
their blackened furrows converging at a distant curve.

Soon the slim fingers of cypress will softly stroke a rising moon
and at my father's back, the porch light will shed its warm glow
onto the rough path and the stone well,
where an ancient rusting bucket idly hangs
by a tangled chain.
And in the gathering darkness, the clouds will part
to reveal a void in the Heavens.
And he will gaze as always in awe
held in a transient spell counting, like blessings,
the burgeoning stars
as he wrestles with reason, the frailty of life.

And enchanted he will enter the spartan house
to briefly reflect his certain future,
leaving the smothered hills in still air
to share peace with themselves.
And from their safe earth and dense thickets,
small creatures will emerge
to face their own fate without question.

Is it instinctive or are we given the right or ability
to play our part in this extravagant dining?
We tremble in anticipation in this enchanted forest,
waiting breathlessly for the next amuse bouche.

Maggie mouths the words but no sound comes out.
The sound is in her head, round and smooth,
fighting shards of spite and lies.
(She wants to scream).

Maggie's not so dumb;
she's naturally wrapped inside a cloud
of how she thinks the world should be and
wonders if the power of thought or unknown force
could shut their mouths and open minds
but knows it's much too late-
she has a train to catch.

These rooms are empty now.
No movement of cool air
between one door opening as another closes
over a fine layer of dust on the polished floor.
No untamed billow of transparent fabric
to snag on the time-worn chair.
Just silvered specks dancing in slanted beams
through a curtainless window -
and so much space!

This morning your hair smells of jasmine
and the weave of your sweater is fixed with waxy stars.
Early you went out to prune the wild tendrils,
while drawn from sleep I turned to kiss your skin
but found you'd gone.

Then as you set the breakfast cups
I watched you from the bedroom door, yearning to entwine you
while your flowery scent still lingered.

This morning your hair smells of jasmine
and the weave of your sweater is fixed with glistening stars.

Someone's flung a fist of golden showers
hillside of the brook;
scattered snowflakes – dotted them
inbetween the overpowering sage's scent
and violet heathery hues.
Overnight, Someone's unseen eye's
designed a palette from
' The Book of Unknown Colours.'
Someone came upon this place and had
an instant rush of love.

UNCHARISMATICALLY, he frowned his displeasure.
On his hunting ground, the rough-coated trooper lunged
into a human intruder.
Predation was a constant chore where extracting food
could be hard work in a competitive and heavily armed environment.
Feeling lucky he grinned, grinding his fused toothplates,
then grabbed and pulverized the passing meal, aware that
overgrazing could destroy his future.

It comes after heavy rains.
Naked amphibious marauder
crouched beneath dampened stars
bip-bipping its personal intercom;
soporific in sleep-weary bleary-eyed dreams.

I imagine a Cop on his elbows
zig-zagging, belly-flat
under cover of darkness;
he not naked; peaked cap askew,
shoulder pips glinting in half moon;
he too,  predator on a mission -
Echo - Charlie - Zebra.

The freezer kicks in
out-droning night sounds.
Light eases between blinds.
I slurp chocolate dregs from a crazed mug.
Over and out.

We walk the smoke-thick winter street of sweet 'n' sour aromas
amongst a throng of oriental shaded faces (such gentle souls)
who crowd  little pushcarts selling scallion pancakes.
Overhead, red talismanic paper lanterns bob, enticing us
to the tap of percussive chopsticks.

We sit in awe; snack on duck-tongue; roast pigs hang
glistening; fat-fresh, ready to fry.
Waiters wheel trolleys piled high with steaming shrimp noodles
past tables of golden oranges and watermelon seeds.
Our Chinese chef prepares shredded pork in garlic sauce.

He smiles and says:
"More guests means more happiness."

She saves swatches of fabric
pinked with special shears;
orders them in co-ordinated heaps
to keep her life fuss-free.
The finished quilt bubbles in her head.
She imagines it telling her bedtime stories
or lines of poetry to help her sleep -
"Better than sheep" she thinks.
She cuts card; stitches with rough tacking;
fantasizes downy feathers floating
between her patchwork story and
backing of silk slipping against skin,
then secures with neat tiny stitches
and strong coloured thread, to ensure
that her dream won't fall apart at the seams.

You said you'd come to tea
so I made a cake
chocolate sweet; maraschino filled;
girdled with a satin blue ribbon;
set out the prettiest plates;
hand painted with forget-me-nots.
And from the darkest corner of a drawer
found a single candle to celebrate the day.
I'd understand if you had 'phoned,
but now the chocolate lends a bitter taste
and even the despairing posies have given up all hope
as the candle's flame flickers my ever waiting shadow.

After the first felt tremor
warning it was time to go,
in your calm way
you took me out into
the penetrating night air
to watch,
as I,
naturally unprepared,
stood dressing.