On the day his temper boiled,
she'd counted fourteen jars,
pleased with her achievement.
Then Vesuvius erupted
like the pan of orange jam.

He slammed out and left her
with fourteen jars made just
for him  by the woman whose
saddened heart sank to the bottom
of each bitter ***.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

I have decided to go home a different way.

I mean to avoid your favourite liquor store and
the waste ground littered with broken bottles
and piles of ****
where I saw you push aside the light.

I won't stick around to be slaughtered like a trapped rat,
or listen to your blizzard of extinct promises-
struck dumb by 'a few good words'.

Killing time will have to wait,
'coz I've made up my mind.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

My neighbour is on her balcony shaking out blankets.
It's nearing Easter and her family is coming to visit.
She stands motionless for a moment to watch the blossom being snatched by sudden gusts, then settling as a skittering of ivory snow.

It's always blustery at this time of year,
that's Nature's way of getting rid of rotten fruit.

She drapes the blankets over the balustrade, then secures them with wooden clothes pegs.
That's when I wave to her.

Usually, the cleaner comes in, but today she wants to do it herself,
to prove that she still can. It's a small thing that makes her happy.

She says there's not enough time left to be bored. So twice a week, she drives into town
to meet for coffee with other people like herself.
Her car is very reliable. She remembers her husband telling her to get things checked
before there was a chance of developing anything faulty.
He died last year, but life has to go on – for her own sake.

In this country, when a partner passes away, the one that's left behind wears black -
that's why she wears her pink dress -
just to let them know she has a mind of her own.

She loves her life here, but misses her grandchildren growing up -
that's why they come.

Last year, one of the boys told her she'd shrunk! But it was he who'd shot up like a flowering
pea, putting out tendrils to test an adult world.

When solitude becomes too much for her, she comes round.
“You could die in your sleep here,” she tells me
“and no one would find you for weeks. When they eventually did, they'd carry you off in a pretense of black to a place where everyone's forgotten.”

That's why today, she's shaking off her blankets.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2013

Bedtime, and another weekend closes on his sleeping children.
Creeping out of their room, he's secretly relieved that the heavy door won't quite shut,
feeling certain he'll never get round to fixing it.

He catches his reflection in the upstairs glass,
studies the bristled face, the ringed pools of his sleepless eyes,
his head reeling with details of recent weeks
demanding answers to how it all came to this.

Downstairs, darkness feeds his solitude.
He gropes for the light, gathers up the abandoned socks,
dumps them with the soiled linen, then
slumps at the narrow window to stare at
amber street lights flickering on over a brutal world.

He recalls when he was a boy,
how his strong limbs used to stride over the cracks,
how nothing could hurt him.
Now, in this absurd small war, he keeps stepping on sudden explosions.

Tomorrow, the children will return to their mother's control,
though he knows she will exploit them
like pawns, for the advance of her own success.

Silently he weeps over them,
aware of how impressionable they are – like clay,
not knowing how their future will be moulded.
The only thing of which he is certain,
is the cold, cruel savagery of love.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2013

The waltz is almost over
together on our toes
today we dance the quickstep
in depths of winter's throes
that's how it goes-
one season to another.

We tried the bossa nova
discovering new steps
a pas de deux by moonlight
united in our quest
for what was best-
from one year to another.




copyright © Caroline Grace 2012

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

For many seasons I awaited your return,
restless on the shore of a great sea,
hair blown wild by brackish winds,
my tapestry unwoven.
For many moons I searched the distant line
where Neptune's hand slices through the sky
beyond the eye's perception.

How frenzied my hands became,
sifting for mythical remains
of boat, of flesh, of washed bones.
From carved crib to wrecked vessel,
your realm was all but stolen,

Then lifted from night's shadow,
on a zephyr's breath, you came
to heal the fever of my sorrow,
my heart grown heavy with longing.

I recall that fateful day, how I wept
while you unfolded wondrous tales
as we lay in half-shade beneath our tree of life.
Between its leaves shines love -
the eternal light,
burning in the heart of Ithaca.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

Through this monumental city
a troubled river runs under an ancient bridge.
It's hardly flowing.
There's just enough depth to reflect
the accumulation of discarded waste -
the sum of man's detritus.

At its edge, a man stretches his legs
over long shadows
cast by a line of Jacarandas.
These are his invisible boundaries.
He believes if he stepped out of their shade
he would sink back into the quicksand of his past.

It was easy for him to give up.
He just slipped through a gap to where
the source of an old torment was quite forgotten.

This is where he spends his day.
On the hour precisely, with a regular bell for measure
absorbed in silent calculations,
counting and recounting the length of his existence-
a short span between life and certain death.

He's too busy to notice a sanctimonious world
taunting from its own
'He's not all there' it whispers,
'he's in a foreign place.'

But it doesn't put him off his stride.
He's miles away on a carpet of heavenly blue
tethered to a dream,
where mocking birds fly over his head,
and his dog, streets ahead, barks urgently
waiting for him to catch up.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

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.

Love's the song of the Oriole,
sleek as silk ribbons
pulled from summer's dress.

Trees sigh, relaxed in a warm wind,
gently flexing each golden note.

Love's a bird in flight.
When your heart takes wing,
prepare to be astounded.

I work hard to keep you alive,
wrapped in delicate feathers of angel wings.
It's a sacred passion of mine.

For you it's not enough
you always want more.
Grain by grain I am dissolving like a headache cure.

Rue the day when soft wings lift
to find a heart so underwhelmed,
my words engraved on it
in past tense.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

Mine was a clean house,
a free, open house
with no restrictions, no frontiers,
naturally landscaped as far as one could see.

For you it was not enough.
You got bored with the view,
took advantage of my kindness.

You defiled my path.
You **** in my rivers,
polluted my sky with your chemical smell.
You tampered with my cooling apparatus,
now the sun can't bounce back.

But talking to you is a waste of time.
You just sit back and sneer,
filling your pockets with stolen hope.

It's too late for a second chance.
You've ****** it up!
Now go find me a brush!

copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

I awoke by the sea to a fearful crashing,
the ground juddering under me.
In the distance, ribbons of laughter-
the shape of human life.
I had not forgotten.

From an immense past,
a thread of light drew me back.
This was my dream-plan.
This is what I asked for.

I lift my head to look.
It wavers on its weak stalk.
Without command, my arm-stumps
jut out at odd angles,
as if about to take me with them
somewhere.....too soon.
They have a mind of their own.

Uplifted, I am blessed
with a peaceful crown of blue
from which a sweet-salt tang
sharpens a wild desire...

I want the air,
I want to push back the hampering twigs,
to hang on thermals in an unlimited sky
where I can chase my bird-shadow
over the hardened earth.

But I must wait for the sky to offer itself,
wait for the light to whisper-
It's time. Time to begin again,
to take a wiser flight.
To be free
as a bird.

My dream takes me on a journey- big dream, big sky,
sea all around. Silent as a galaxy.

Flying is easy- I have simply to think it.
I rise weightless into a wilderness of imagined blue,
hovering over the wrinkled beach of my bed,
my mind a white butterfly,

And there I find you, dizzy with excessive light,
floundering at the sky's edge, head in the clouds
looking for silver.

Drawing me close, I fall into the net of your arms,
that safe place you've always made for me,
your hands tightly clasped behind my back.
We feed from each others breath,
aware of the sudden gravity between us.

But you are not as I remember.
Your face smoothed of all detectable emotion,
your eyes, not as they were, but exquisite diamonds
piercing through wads of cotton cloud,
until you become part of them-
a neat trick!

Shuddering, wounded,
lightly I descend into weeping,
I spread the sails of my arms,
tacking on a downward draught
until I find my feet anchored,
eased into familiar sheets.

A new light dawns on me,
wipes dry the lids of my eyes.
The clock reads four,
acid, luminous,
and there you are, in the kitchen,
slurping coffee from a chipped cup,
your free hand rattling the slats of the window blind.

I reach out for you, but your image dissolves
like paper in rain.
Aware of the mind's deception,
I remain wreathed in sleep,
and though this is still a dream,
you will always be a part of it.


copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

Yesterday your letter came.

Risen early,  unable to sleep,
watching the morning,
your roses,
the blown blossom catching in drifts.
Through misted eyes
I read your final sentiments
expressed in such a vital hand –
‘sealed with a loving kiss’

I knew they were mistaken,
(those stiff military men,
all talk and tact)
pushed aside their lies,
would not believe.

Then you came to me,
talked of fire on the horizon,
the desolation of no mans land,
showed me the indelible stain
where your heart once raced.
All confusion dissolved,
undeniable proof.

In time you will thin to a
frail thread of half-formed light,
weaving bright patterns
through distorted days.
I will learn to live,
that peace will come,
cherish your immortal words
sealed with a loving kiss.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2012

Today is the first day of Spring,
a significant moment when we shift into
a different rhythm of sleep and wakefulness.
When the dark turns back on itself
like thick rind peeled from a fruit
to reveal its golden glow.

That warm feeling returns,
not just superficially - much deeper.
Time has chance to saunter - people do too.
They find a moment to talk with each other-
too hot to rush off to wherever it is they're going.

**

Queueing in the supermarket requires patience.
People casually chat at the checkout
exchanging snippets of gossip as though
they've not spoken to a soul all winter.

Patiently I wait in line at the rapid-serve
with my punnet of strawberries,
their tempting fragrance filling my nostrils.

For a moment I am elsewhere-
in a sunlit field, hovering over row on row
of undulating furrows, where shy fruit
hides under spread leaves-
the ones that got away you might say.

Abruptly, my distant view's obscured
by an unfamiliar voice:

You are English-yes?

I had been studying his back,
muffled in a woolly facade of Tweed.
For him, it was still Winter.

Ah - An English rose - yes!

He tells me how I resemble his wife
and how she adored strawberries.

(simultaneously he waves over his shoulder
to somewhere in the past)

He says he will never forget her,
that once you stop remembering,
eighty years of life becomes meaningless.

A warmness spreads between us
like the weight of a cello concerto.
A kind of sad happiness.

Later in the day, under the almond tree,
I **** on season's first fruit.
My tongue curls around a mouthful of
forgotten language.
I am not disappointed.
It is impossible to believe how good it tastes-
like life sometimes,
when strangers offer a few kind words,
filling the days with sweetness-
the Summer coming.

You hoped for a mansion
but all you got was a ruined house,
abandoned, without care.
It was not what you expected.

A kind of wildness has crept into you-
unpredictable, you have become too slippery for me.

But I'm not concerned with that right now.
I'm too intent on pressing my nose to the window,
fogging the glass with my breath,

(Weird how this cracked pane bends the light)

trying to decipher your contours
as you snake away in stony silence,

halting abruptly at the iron gate
where the grazing pasture seems greener,
much sleeker than your own.

Someday soon, you'll give up your crazy meanderings.
Heed my words!
But not yet-
not until I shatter you.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

When I am gone from here,
when I have drifted into the ether,
my thoughts will continue.
Long after you've forgotten how to sing,
they will be a song for your eyes.

These are my children
nurtured over breakfasting tables,
coming alive at four a.m.
uneasy in their sleep.

And you will ask:
Is this how she spent her time
behind that pensive gaze?
Was the sky really that naked?

I won't mind if you skip the daisies,
they're not your beau ideal.
I won't mind if you dig deep into their roots,
they are already dead.

Magically you will be lured into me-
Bee for my bell-flower, asking:
Is this how she spent her days,
gazing into the distance?
Planning the future,
silently moving on.

I don't know why your voice was so near and you were not.
I turned as in a dream to listen,
but your fragmented words scattered in the wind.
Far side of the garden,  I caught  you crush the grieving lilies,
hand raised as if to say goodbye.
Or was it there to shield your eyes against a blinding light,
that took you with the moon behind the hill?

Where did you go that I could not follow?

Loneliness obscures all reason, refuses truth,
that is to say-
when you are lost, nothing is clear.

Transfixed but strangely calm,
I waited for your backward glance,
your promise of return,
an explanation.
Then from the light, you reached to cast a silver thread,
that one redeeming ray of hope that drew me closer to the truth.

copyright © Caroline Grace 2014

From the side of the hill
my sight captures flat pasture,
part orchard,
part garden.

A full moon illuminates
my ready-trotted route
glistening with mud.
At its end, a rolled hollow,
a lit tree-
bed and breakfast.

This is what I live for,
how I survive.
I don't ask for much,
ignorant to what's on the other side.
I know my limits.

Further up the *****
there are more mouths,
dug out, living in brambles,
a natural, comfortable camouflage-
a bed of roses.

When I sleep,
in the blink of an eye
you vanish,
dreams exploding blood and gore
to which I once bore witness.

I try to ignore the intrusion.

What goes on in daylight
belongs to you.
How can you live in Paradise
with death on your side?

The bulk of me shudders to think!

Whatever happened to passion?
You're pleased as a starved flea
finding a host.
Everything has its predator-
yours is your own!

Sniffing the air,
I smell your cold heart
raw and pumping,
seeking a pastime
to glitter your world
at our expense.

Eat what you've already murdered,
bought, hoarded in your larder!
You don't need another corpse
on your conscience.

If you lived simply by instinct,
what would you do?