The bomb site
is the best place
for chickweed
Helen said

so you went
to the one off
Meadow Row
and gathered up

handfuls of the stuff
and took them back
to your flat
to feed the budgerigar

you were looking after
for the old couple
along the balcony
who had gone away

for a few days
you watched
as Helen poked
some through the bars

of the bird cage
with her fingers
and you noticed
her tenderness

and determination
as she pushed it
through the narrow
gauged bars

her tongue poking out
of the corner
of her mouth
her eyes focusing

through her
thick lens spectacles
does it sing?
she asked

don't think so
you replied
least I’ve not
heard it do so

she talked to the budgie
in her little girl voice
and sang a few lines
of a hymn

the budgerigar
just stared at her
and walked up
the other end

of the perch
with a beak full
of chickweed
as she sang to it

she held her head
at an angle
and one of her plaits
of brown hair

hung downwards
do you want
to come back
to my place afterwards?

she said
you can help me
bath my doll Battered Betty
and then

Mum'll get us
some bread and jam
or bread and dripping
and a mug of tea

you had wanted to go
to the bomb site
for half an hour
to gather ammunition

for your catapult
but she had that look
about her face
that made you say

sure why not
and so after poking through
the remaining chickweed
and washing your hands

under the cold water tap
in the kitchen
and drying them
on the towel hanging

behind the door
you walked down
the concrete stairs
and out into the Square

and down the *****
into Rockingham Street
where you walked past
the coal wharf

where coal trucks
were being filled
with sacks of coal
and by

the Duke of Wellington pub
where you used to get
bags of crisps
and bottles of Tizer

on Sunday evenings
then under
the railway bridge
and she talked

of some boys at school
who called her 4 eyes
and fish face
O don't mind them

you said
they just can't see
your beauty
too blind

dumb idiots
do I?
she said
have beauty?

sure you do
you said
putting on
your serious face

never seen a girl
with more
and she smiled
and gazed at you

through the thick lens
of her spectacles
showing the large
brown conker like eyes

when you got to her place
her mother
was just finishing
bathing a young kid

so she let Helen
have the water after
to bath Betty
and gave her

an old towel to dry with
you helped her
prepare the doll
but she took off

the baby clothes
an old cardigan
that had seen
better days

and a creamy dress
with small buttons
at the back
which were a hell

of a job to undo
and a pair of
doll *******
that fitted tightly

and were a struggle
to get off
well
Helen said

the water's nice
and soapy
so we can wash her
as it is

and so you watched
as she dipped the doll
under the water
(it might have drowned

had it been for real)
and held it there
until bubbles came out
of the neck

and she lifted Betty out
and wiped her over
with a flowery face cloth
and Betty’s eyes

opened and closed
and you helped dry
and studied
(as boys tend to do)

the seriousness
of Helen about the task
the tongue hanging
from the side

of her mouth
her eyes focussed
the head to one side
like an animal

trying to understand
a human command
and the small hands
working with calm concern

just as you'd seen
your mother do
when she made a cake
or rolled out pastry

for a pie
once the doll was dry
and dressed
she put Betty back

in the tiny cot
her dad had made
from an orange box
and her mother said

sit down
and I’ll get you
some bread and jam
or bread and dripping

and mugs of tea
and off she went
to the kitchen
humming some hymn

and you looked at Helen
sitting there
with her plaits of hair
and big eyes

showing no fear
and a smile
from ear
to lovely ear.

The Heat, and not the sports team
Has come here for a while
It's enough to set some records
And to **** the farmers smiles

Humidity and high temperatures
Add to make our life like hell
It's drying up our creeks and streams
There's no water in our wells

We do not use our ovens
To cook our meals, not now at least
We just leave meat on the counter
The outside heat will cook the beast

Our lawns are brown and dormant
But the weeds are growing strong
There is chickweed and crabgrass where once
Green grass did once belong

The splash pads are on overtime
To help keep people cool
We've cooling centers everywhere
They're in all of the schools

In order to cool down at home
I have my a/c set to freeze
And if at times this doesn't work
I watch Christmas DVD's

Remember hats and sunscreen
to keep the heat off of your head
In fact it is so god ****** hot
I tan while I'm in bed

I remember as a child
Summer never got as hot as this
Compared to recent temperatures
Is like a ******* to a kiss

We pray for heat in winter
And in the summer, the reverse
I know I would like the snow
The heat is much, much, worse

Instead of just complaining
I should just take it, brave the heat
But for now, I'll watch my movies
Sing my carols, cool my feet

I know that come this winter
I'll be crying for the heat
Just remind me of this little poem
And I'll shut up, and take my seat.

Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet,
For this, the often praised; and be ourselves,
The rain, the chickweed, and the burdock leaf,
The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,
And all that welcomes the rain; the sparrow too,-
Who watches with a hard eye from seclusion,
Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done.
There is an oriole who, upside down,
Hangs at his nest, and flicks an orange wing,-
Under a tree as dead and still as lead;
There is a single leaf, in all this heaven
Of leaves, which rain has loosened from its twig:
The stem breaks, and it falls, but it is caught
Upon a sister leaf, and thus she hangs;
There is an acorn cup, beside a mushroom
Which catches three drops from the stooping cloud.
The timid bee goes back to the hive; the fly
Under the broad leaf of the hollyhock
Perpends stupid with cold; the raindark snail
Surveys the wet world from a watery stone...
And still the syllables of water whisper:
The wheel of cloud whirs slowly: while we wait
In the dark room; and in your heart I find
One silver raindrop,-on a hawthorn leaf,-
Orion in a cobweb, and the World.

Helen pushed
the old black doll's pram
over the bomb site
her doll Battered Betty
covered by a wool
knitted blanket

I blew my peashooter
at a tin can on the wall
of a bombed-out house

maybe we can have
our house built here
she said

the tin can fell
to the ground
a with a hollow crash
as I hit it
with a split-pea

where?
I said
looking round at her

here on this bomb site
she said
nodding to the area
around her

I didn't ask why “we”
I put another tin can
on the wall and aimed
with the peashooter

she began to wander around
leaving the doll's pram
behind her

here could be our kitchen
she said
standing in an area
of bricks and chickweed
but with no bath in it
as we have at home
but a separate bathroom
like they do
in posh houses

I blew the peashooter  
at the tin can
and it fell
with a clatter

what do you think Benny?

I looked at her standing
with hands on her hips
her brown hair parted
into two plaits
her NHS glasses
thick lens
her eyes enlarge
gazing at me

looks ok to me
I said
unable to see anything
but brick and chickweed
and old stones

and maybe a sitting room
over here
she said
walking a few paces
to her right
and a fireplace here
one of those modern ones

yes I can see it now
I said
looking at her drab
green raincoat unbuttoned

can you?
she said excitedly

and bedrooms
how many?
I asked

she looked around her
scratching her
seven year old head

how many children
will we have?
she asked

how many did you want?
I asked

loads
she replied
looking around her

I pocketed my peashooter
and small bag
of split peas

how do you get them?
I asked

she looked at me
frowning
don't know
she said
don't you know?

I shook my head
I’m a seven year old boy
how the heck
would I know

she walked a bit more
maybe four bedrooms
just to be sure
she said

I looked at her walking
further on
her Wellington boots
mud splashed

let's go
get a couple of 1d drinks
I’m thirsty
all this talk
of houses and kids
I said

ok
she replied
but we'll have to
sort things out soon

I thought of the John Wayne film
my old man
was taking me to see

she thought(no doubt)
of curtain colours
and matching stuff

I walked on
as she walked behind
with pram and Betty
I had had enough.

Naaman met Amana
as she was on her way
to the shop for her mother.

He was counting out change
in the palm of his hand.

The morning sun
was coming over
the fishmonger shop,
the sky was grey blue.

She spoke
of her parents rowing,
how she never slept
until late,
a series of slaps,
then silence,
she said.

Naaman put the change
in the pocket
of his school trousers;
he saw how tired she looked,
even though her fair hair
was well brushed,
there was a haunted
look about her.

He knew of rows,
slammed doors
at night,
weeping into
the small hours
from his mother’s room.  

Amana showed him
the list of shopping
she had to get.

He showed her his.
Doughnuts are warm
from the shop,
we can share one,
he said.

Won’t your mother mind?
she asked.
You can only eat them
once she’ll say,
Naaman replied.

They walked to the shop
across Rockingham Street
and entered in.

The smell of warm bread
and rolls and coffee
being made.

He stood behind her
as she showed
the woman her list.

Amana had on
her school uniform,
the dress well pressed;
the white socks contrasted
with the well blacked shoes.
Her hands were at her sides.
Thumbs down,
soldier like.

He had held that hand
home from school once,
warm, tingling
with the pulse of her.

That time on the bombsite,
collecting chickweed
for the caged bird
his mother kept,
she had kissed
his cheek.
Never washed for a week
(least not that part).

He could smell
the freshness of soap
about her
as he neared to her.

The woman handed
the shopping over
the counter
and Amana paid in coins
which the woman counted.

Naaman handed
the woman his own list.
Rattled the coins
in his pocket.  

Amana waited;
the bag by her feet.
She spoke
of the Annunciation
being taught at school,
the Visitation of an angel.

All beyond Naaman’s grasp
at that time.
He knew of catapults
and swords ,
of old battles in fields,
and the Wild West
where he rode
his imaginary horse.  

He wanted to kiss
her cheek as she
had kissed his.
Shyness prevented.

She spoke
of the ****** birth
the nun’s spoke of,
the wise men coming
from afar
following a star.

Naaman liked the stars,
the brightness of them,
the faraway wonder
in a dark sky.

After he had received
his shopping and paid
they walked back out
into the street
and crossed to the *****
that led to the Square.

Then beneath
the morning sun,
bag in hand,
she leaned close,
pressed her lips
to his cheek
and kissed him there.

in the meadow of my yard amidst the accepted growths
, those green grasses loved to look upon by the majority
, grow so often a dandelion, or chickweed down here wiregrass
is common, so common the region is named after ,
so why not have a lawn of dandelions with wiregrass trimmings
and chickweed appointed almost like nature might?
and on the hedges a soft painted turtle crafted sculpture
and near the lane wild ginseng and raspberries
along the walk junipers and brambles to  make it
intriguing. Might even make a bed of wild Irish roses
for me to make it appealing to the judges.

Unkulunkulu arose from combusting reeds,
Conjured snaking kalaidoscopes to colour the bony landscape.
He summoned oozing crocodiles,
Mud encrusting their jagged rinds
whilst the newly vomited sun pummels it to solidity.

Then seeds descended from Nzame's hands,
Scattering, he watched the devil strive
to swallow the sun with his eager muzzle,
only thwarted as Kamui’s crow flew down his throat:
Kamui and Aionia chortled smoke as he retched.

Then, the first peoples.
Their frail bodies of earth, chickweed for hair,
Willow spines that would bend when they turned old.
Sandals sprung into leather squirrels,
Tarantulas span cord webs to create the earth-ball,
supported by posts to stop it rolling,
Steadied, it rotates:
a roasting world on a spit.

Four feet by six feet,
good black soil
in a good back garden.
I stand, transfixed.
When I was six,
this plot was purgatory.
It could swallow
a sunny afternoon
without mercy.
It stretched, relentless,
an Amazon of weeds
with no beginning
and no end
and I would spend
hour after miserable hour
merely looking
at the horror ahead.
Punctuated here and there
with a desultory dig,
a scrape at the surface,
dock or dandelion
briefly inconvenienced
as the whole, howling,
heaving hoard
of grinning, gobbling green
grasped me, held me
in sticky-willie stasis,
a chickweed choke-hold
between buttercup buttresses.

Today it's tiny.
I could sweep it clean
with three good strokes
of the ***.

So I stand, at once
amused and wistful
lamenting not
the verdant self-pity
but wishing I was still
so easily convinced
of eternity.

Ingrid's right ear
was still numb
where her father
hit her head

as she climbed the stairs
to Benedict's flat
and knocked at his door
he's in the Park

I think Ingrid
or try the bomb site
on Meadow Row
his mother said

so she climbed down
the stairs
her eyes
filled with tears

her hearing like
she was under water
swimming
she crossed the Square

and over Bath Terrace
into the Park
passed by
the flowers beds

the trees
the wire fence
coming into view
her eyes scanned

through the wire
to see if he was on
the swings
but he wasn't

she entered the playground
and searched
but he wasn't there
her heart sank

low ebb feeling
she walked back
through the Park
along the path

and crossed
Bath Terrace
and back through
the Square

passed kids
playing skip rope
or football
some playing a tag game

running
here and there
she walked down
the *****

and over
Rockingham Street
passed the fish mongers
up the narrow pavement

passed the houses
her eyes watery
looking up the Row
hoping he'll be there

passed the public house
where her father went
and got drunk
and round

into the narrow
side road
where the bomb site
spread before her eyes

the coal wharf
on her right
horses and wagons
still there

she scanned the site
walked to the edge
her heart thumping
her eyes  searching

and there he was
over by the wall
of a bombed out house
2 walls gone

roof blown off
him standing there
picking up stones
she called his name

he turned and waved
she hurried towards him
over bricks
and stones

and chickweed
to where he stood  
2 small stones
in his hand

been looking for you
she said
her voice
on the edge

of breaking
what's the matter?
he said
but guessed

saw her watery eyes
her tone of voice
my ear hurts
she blurted out

and held her right ear
with her hand
your old man?
he said

she nodded
and cried
and Benedict
hugged her

his 9 year old arms
about
her thin shoulders
they stood

in the recess
of the bombed out house
sunlight pushing
through the tile less roof

unsure
what to say or do
he kissed her hand
and ear

a catapult wedged
in the back pocket
of his jeans
the small stones

held tight
in his left hand
he kissed the ear again
hoping

it would help
to heal the pain.

It is, in its own fashion, a ballpark—there are dugouts,
(Though more kin to lean-tos if the truth be told)
A fence with advertisements, though its paint is cracked and faded,
And some of those firms testifying
To being tops in collars and canned foods
Have long since changed names or flat-out gone under,
But a ballpark nonetheless, and if you squint your eyes
Or find some other convenient method of self-delusion,
You can convince yourself it is a rather fine thing,
Happily oblivious to the fact that the infield
Is all bumps and tiny moraines
Covered with crownvetch and chickweed masquerading as grass,
The outfield rife with bark scorpions
Who frequently wander inside the lines.
Milling about this somewhat-short-of-pastoral greenish patch,
Wearing uniforms of a reasonable homogeny,
Is a curious, potentially combustible group of men:
Honest-to-goodness big leaguers whose off-field proclivities
Led Judge Landis to excuse them further participation,
Rope-muscled miners from Bisbee,
Carbide-lamp helmets tucked under their arms,
Callow boys taking a chance on this decidedly last-chance town,
One or two others with tangibly acute reasons
For staying in close proximity to the Mexican border.
Holding court in the midst of this collection
Is a man whose face was not visited by the smallpox
As much as it was wrapped up in its full embrace;
It’s old Charlie Comiskey who should be in jail, he grumbles
Man has more money’n he’ll ever need,
Hell, more than Stoneham or Ruppert.
No reason in the world he couldn’t pay his boys a fair wage,
But he treated ‘em like dogs, and if you starve it long enough,
Why, even the most loyal dog will turn on a man,
Ain’t that right boys?, and a pair of his listeners,
Men named Chick and Swede
Who know of Comiskey’s parsimony first-hand,
Grimly nod their heads in agreement.
The speaker pauses for a moment, and as he does
He produces, seemingly from nowhere, a hip flask
(Brought forth like a seasoned magician
Pulling flowers from some gauzy handkerchief,
Or a card sharp finding an extra king in the very air itself)
And takes a long draught before continuing.
Look, I love this game--hell, no man loves it more
But it’s still just a **** game,
Just entertainment, like a circus or a rodeo.
Maybe we a took a few liberties with a game here and there,
But, you know, I knew folks who’d see the same Broadway show
Three, maybe even four times;
They knew how it would turn out, I reckon,
But it didn’t keep them from spending four bucks a ticket.
Well, what’s a ballplayer but an entertainer?
We still put on a good show, and no one gets hurt,
But because it’s a ballgame, you’d think we’d spit on the cross.
With this, the circle breaks up, and men head to spots on the field
To field lazy fungoes and toss the ball around the infield,
And most of the on-lookers soon head back toward town
(Perhaps back to work at one of the smelters,
Their stacks blowing forlorn clouds into otherwise endless skies,
Or maybe to one of the sad houses on the far side of town
Where haunted-eyed Mexican ****** mechanically light candles
In supplication to saints whose efficacy they’ve come to doubt)
But the stragglers who stay behind are treated to the first baseman
Make a marvelous, almost magical, pickup of a short-hop throw
With the easy nonchalant brilliance which at one time
Brought hundreds, no thousands, of men to their feet in disbelief,
And as he sweeps his glove upward, he laughs
(Though with just a touch of restraint, a trace of the rehearsed)
And says See, boys? Once you are big league,
You are always big league.

out back behind the convenience-grocery is a house. it is in a row of
other houses. they are older than the town’s inception. with gnarled tiles and weathered stucco, they wait as the valley reaches up to hug their narrow bases. it will reclaim them. one day.

out back behind the convenience-grocery is a kid. he has curly hair that frames his gaunt complexion. he has a smile that belays nausea. he has a little sister who begs him to stop. he does not. he will not until he has killed the moon.

out back behind the convenience-grocery is a forest. it is older than the valley’s naming. there are houses with crumbling chain-link fences that the forest guards. there are peach trees, and cherry clearings, and walnuts bathing in patches of nettle. there is yarrow and goldenrod and wild carrot. there is chickweed and horehound and the blood of a planet. there is celandine and thistle and the skeleton of a long deceased celestial body.

out back behind the convenience-grocery is a popsicle. it melts in the evening sun. sugar dripping onto moss. there is a little sister that it melts into. it runs down her forearms and onto the bones of a moon. she does not mind. she tosses the wooden stick over the fence. she makes a wish as it flies into the arms of a corpse.