Poets write with crooked lines
Lines that zig and zag
Lines that duck and dive

Poets write with messy lines
Lines that weave and wave
Lines that come alive

Poets write with spiral lines
Lines that slow and speed
Lines that fall and rise

Poets write with broken lines
Lines that leap and climb
Lines that launch and fly

Poets write with solid lines
Lines that fully embody
Lines that wholly embed
Hope

“You’re big and ugly enough,” he did mean it kindly
as he passed me a wrench and continued to guide me.

“You’re big enough and ugly enough, to handle this truth.  
It’s now time that you learned that it’s just what we do.
We take on the rough along with the smooth.
You will learn that the world will expect this of you.”

And so, each year upon year I took on rough truths,
until cold battered hands were no longer smooth.
I grasped the sharp nettles, and I braced for disputes
until strong opposition decided to move.

I ignored muscle pains and maintained my strong grip,
all the much tighter when I felt my hands slip.
Through gritted cracked teeth, expletives would slip
but I beat mounting odds with dulled cries of relief.

Now a few decades on, I’m still big and I’m ugly,
but I’ve got a light touch for words that hold beauty.
There’s a time for raw strength but space for what’s lovely
and the lovely gives strength to meet each day’s duties.

My dad did mean well when he passed on his insights,
but there’s much more to my strength than winning each fight.
I’m no longer a big, ugly stereotype -
The best part of me can be found when I write.

Father-craft has been passed down from father to father,
losing and gaining at each slow bequeathing.
Less heavy-handed there, more soft-hearted here
at each generation’s rejection of the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder what's left of the original art
and what we've lost and what we've gained.

This is my food for thought as I feed my daughter
crumbled digestive with mashed banana -
(Perhaps a favourite of mine and my father's.)
- while she grins and chortles, blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles with absolute child-delight.

Food for thought and thanks as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek and laugh along, prolonging
the choice perfection of this fathering moment.

At the rumble of a badger's yawn
At the crack of a sparrow's ****
At the pang of his weakened bladder
That's when he makes his start

With the scrape of greying stubble
With the shine of derby brogues
With a perfect Windsor knot
That's how my husband rolls

At the slam of the panelled door
At the echo of a muttered curse
At the march of polished steps
It's only then that I emerge

No mind left behind
No-one left deprived
Of love and joy and song
And knowing we belong

When bad motives are assigned to your art
When you're perceived as trouble in the making
When your audacious is seen as disruptive
That's when you smile and keep on writing
[painting, making, drawing, singing...]

I am a poet
Anything that you tell me
May become Haiku