Worn down nails,
rough and ridged.
Islands of colour float
in a pool of unwanted expectation.

Small pieces of skin stand proud.
Trail down my frame,
with your cardboard ogre hands.
Black prickles tickle your material,
poking out from minuscule crevices
you wanted to believe did not exist.

I am not preparing myself for your pleasure.
Your gaze through tinted roses,
giving you a wanted expectation.
Well, i'll be an exception.

Funny how we woke up in the morning
and pretended that tomorrow never happened—
strutted naked in mirrors celebrating our youth,
laughing, knowing suns and moons couldn’t do the same.

We borrowed our arms from the fridge
and peddled bicycles with bad breath—
trading war stories ‘cause we knew
if we came back alive
life would still be the death of us.

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

It's a still morning, quiet and cloudy
the kind of grey day I like best;
they'll be here soon, the little kids first,
creeping up to try and frighten me,
then the tall young men, the slim boy
with the marvellous smile, the dark girl
subtle and secret; and the others,
the parents, my children, my friends —
and I think: these truly are my weather
my grey mornings and my rain at night,
my sparkling afternoons and my birdcall at daylight;
they are my game of hide and seek, my song
that flies from a high window. They are
my dragonflies dancing on silver water.
Without them I cannot move forward, I am
a broken signpost, a train fetched up on
a small siding, a dry voice buzzing in the ears;
for they are also my blunders
and my forgiveness for blundering,
my road to the stars and my seagrass chair
in the sun. They fly where I cannot follow
and I — I am their branch, their tree.
My song is of the generations, it echoes
the old dialogue of the years; it is the tribal
chorus that no one may sing alone.

If I were to write a life-long poem
A line every day, so to put on display
The simple happenings of life
To weave verses together, an enduring tether
Of all life’s joys and strife
Would it have rhythm and beat? Skip and repeat?
Or would it just flow easy and free?
Would it charm or would it harm, this rhythmic yarn
That weaves the fabric of me?
Would this rhyme be a bildungsroman?
Charting progress, growth and learning?
Or would it compel, by whom it was written
To not publish but set it to burning?
Lumps and bumps, and dreary spells
Momentary lameness and drought
Every epic has its lows, as any writer knows
‘Tis what life is all about
Would it conclude with pride and nothing to hide
Confident and self-esteemed?
Would it spell to its reader, whoever at all
The tale of life lived and not dreamed?

Maybe I’m way too far gone to ever be whole.
Not for pity, but for respect it is
To the shattered shelter to the storm
That I raise my glass
It’s for the eroded shore from the ocean’s might
That I hold my bottle close
When I am gone, it’s the trampled grass that I will remember
The **** of the forest and the burning
Of the limbs of the trees
The mother, the cave, the sweet care we forget
For that,
I will celebrate on the day I die.
My respects to the great spirits before me
The howling of the wolves and to
An abandoned dog’s whimper on a cold starry night.
I remember that no matter how small she might seem
The madness she holds is as big as anyone’s.
She works as hard as she can
Her body is broken in many places
The pain is a reminder – a constant plea
“take care” I am you and you are me
At the end of the day – you are all I have
The love that was once whole
Is broken – pushed into a pile of shards