Mummy
I think you should send Grandma back
to where she came from;
she comes into my room
stares about, and she says:
“Decadent! Decadent! Decadent!”
And then she mutters:
“Never had such things in my day!”
Ma – it’s a good idea to send her back
to where she came from, I think
And when no one is home
but me and Grandma
she puts plastic flowers in her hair
and dances all round with her song:
"This eve is my wedding;
this eve am I the bride
And I've me the handsomest man
in all of the land"
She hid my shoes the other day
and she grinned when I found them under her bed;
when you are not looking
she swipes her hands over a pretend iPad
and sticks her tongue out, and pops her eyes out
and whispers to me:
“That’s how you look, dearie dear;
like the village idiot in days of old”
She says I dress too short;
I should wear skirts right down to the toes
Grandma stood over my bed
yesterday morning
and she said I was sleeping late, too long;
and she copycats me eating, and she says:
“You are at a sumptuous table
but you eat like the poor”
And she pretends to kiss me goodnight
and she whispers her secret curse:
“Girls who don’t wash their toes,  
they don’t go to Heaven
You might wake up in the morning
and find yourself  walking
on the hot coals of Hell”
Mummy, please
I think you should send Grandma back
to where she came from

By Blue Hour Magazine

I looked for her on the rooftops of Brooklyn,
the makeshift balconies of Manhattan,
and the subway in between.

On the mountaintops of Spain,
the ***** pubs of Dublin,
and every European train.

On southern country roads,
and the foothills of Tennessee,
and a lake house preserving childhood dreams.

In the classrooms of philosophers and mystics,
the offices of scholars,
and the garden of a Buddhist.

In a home painted yellow,
behind an ill-fitting apron,
and white picket fence.

In the cramped apartments of men who wrote,
and drank,
and beneath the sheets of those who understood.

On the folded pages of library books,
the texture of painted canvas,
and the sound of piano keys.

I looked for her through my bedroom window,
barefoot and hardly clothed,
not lonely, but alone.

I looked for her,
and did not find her,
but instead, created her.

She walks in beauty, like the night
     Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
     Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
     Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
     Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
     Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
     How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
     So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
     But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
     A heart whose love is innocent!

Willie’s walked to the village,
Dottie sits darning stockings
by the window, her nimble

fingers pulling and pushing
the yarn through the cloth.
Sunlight brightens up the

length of her lap, warms
her fingers, brings touch
of Heaven. She pauses,

holds needle in mid sew,
watches a butterfly, Red
Admiral, flitter by the

window’s square. If only
Willie was there. He was
up early, up and out in

the garden’s span, digging
and planting, she watching,
taking in his moving arms,

his steady hands. She still
feels the damp place his
kiss gave, on forehead above

her brow, feels it still, anyhow.
She resumes the darning of
her brother’s cloth, the sharp

needle pulled and pushed,
the fingers holding firm, the
in and out, of the narrowing

hole, the closing up. She looks
at the trees, the slight sway
of arms, the green covered

fingers, how she and Willie
sat beneath by the near shore,
sheltered by tall willows, the

sea view soaking their eyes, his
hand in hers, birdsong, distant
ship on horizon’s brow. If only
Willie was here, was here now.

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,--
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,--
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.

He sighs through his nose and closes his eyes.
This, as they say, is the life.
Forget the sun-stained beaches.
Abandon the synthetic blue sea.
And who needs smooth sand?
When one has air?
And pray tell, where is the demand for rushing waves?
When one has silence?

Pictures and people are shown to him.
Autumn ’58, she tells him.
The jive, she says.
Bright dresses, say the pictures.
Polka dots. Fedora.
Vague smile, he says.

Here’s something he knows:
Peace lies in thoughts.
Serenity basks in plainness.
Know nothing.
Remember little.
Vacant, simple, and ignorant.
Ignorance, they say, is bliss.
Less, they say, is more.
Simplicity is splendour.

You saw Christina
and a few

of her giggling
school friends

in one
of the school corridors

in between
maths and biology

she
looked at you

her eyes shy
and yet searching

and her friends
unnoticing

how feelings moved
or what

was inwardly touched  
some electric shock

pulsed through you
stood hair on end

or so it seemed
she in her green skirt

and white blouse
and ankle socks

with sight of flesh
as she moved

and you
in your dull grey

and black shoes
seeking to take

what image
of her

you could
to your dreams

to hold at night
and not a word

there was spent
or exchanged

or feelings unloaded
or spread

except whatever raced
like some runner

in your head
and she

in hers no doubt
wondering afterwards

what this love
bringing together

and separating
was all about.

A smile
resembles a flower
sometimes, drawn on a paper,
or on a memory wall.Freshly painted.
Imagine me sitting
limbs akimbo, easy, relaxed,
free from all kinds of travel anxiety,
looking high,
at the far end of the transit lounge,
smiling,
looking back at a memory
of a girl/ incident/landscape
I now don't exactly remember,
when,
a girl, sitting across me
in a sort of airport fatigue
looking unreasonably perplexed,
asked, "Are you smiling at me?"
Was I? If only she was my memory!
She wasn't smiling, I noticed.