Apr 11 ju
no name

it blooms in your mouth
as soon as you think of it
it starts in the middle
and stretches to your cheeks
it grows feet and kicks at your lips.
you can hold it in but it
wants to spread, and
it'll press on your tongue
react with it, rub your teeth in
with worn sandpaper.
because in there,
it's an in-between
and it wants to loom, to grow, to be.

ju Apr 8

My decisions grow, as moss grows. Slow, slow and unseen between the green-green of expected. My decisions grow, as moss grows. Quietly wild. Shallow threads clutched tight at the sheerness of possible- drinking light from the dark in order to thrive.

My decisions grow, as moss grows. Slow, slow and unseen. No branches, no forks, no watch-wait-and-see, just spores caught on a breeze when I need them.

ju Apr 8

pop bumper
steel balls
(skill shot)

ju Apr 6

they are

her stars
read and re-read

immense in their power

vast and

telling fortunes
spinning time

keeping quiet

her stars
out of reach

and inimitable

ju Apr 5

today you are a storm and I am your world
(what am I in your eyes?
which raw nerve did I rake? which hurt did I expose?)

they’ve scribbled out your silver linings
replaced them with pages of grey

it hasn’t helped

today you are a storm and I am your world

tomorrow you’ll be a ray of sunshine
or a swullocking sky
or a tsunami

I’ll still be your world

and that’s fine

ju Apr 2016

I have a few words
but they are brittle, easily fragmented.
Not pretty in their frailty- just broken.

ju Apr 2015

Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day. Feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realized I could get rid of the sofa.

I thought it was ugly. She thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.

Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.

My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have. She smacked me when I was little) … but I stopped.

I never wanted to. I had known all along, somehow forgotten.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.

Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs. Feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her .

It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill. No cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.

My little boy had grown. He helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk. She wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.

Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realized it was time to move on.

I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.

Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.

Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.

If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.

Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.

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