"plaited" poems
~
*O Painter
with thy own eye
would thee
paint me in mine own natural hue
prithee paint me as i am,
imperfections
and blemishes true
Load thy brush
with colors sundry
to maketh yond first pure sweep
across the ****** frieze,
fill'd with pangs of hunger.
paint me as i standeth
bethought, in deep
With mine own love and mine own desire,
blurring the edges unclean
with mine own regrets
and mine own mental gyre,
in mine own natural age,
of deep forest green
O Painter
Paint me sinister turquoise,
in lavender and maroon,
combine the amethyst and amber
blend the iceberg
and the indigo moon.
Paint me as i standeth,
prithee see with thy eye
a mistress in yond lady plight
Prithee paint me all i am
i cullionly
a mistress in all yond lady might
Paint me in the optimistic
silv'r of dawn,
but don’t miss the purple
to shade the bruise
of the bygone.
paint me in the sky blue journal
O Painter
Paint me as a unique template
smudge black white and grizzled
merging all the colors of thy palette.
col'r me a rainbow
in a rainy drizzle
Paint me tall so yond i standeth
loftier than any mountain
Paint me as a dram bird, delicate
with soft feathers silken
Paint me harmony, as a violin
so yond i can sing thy solitary tune
paint me as thy poetry
with song and melody
wrapp'd in a cocoon
O Painter
paint me as a dream yond rises
in did saturate colors
with a steady upbeat flight awry
tint, a fluttering
of a quite quaint butterfly
Portray me with endurance
imbue so bold and bright
doth not hesitate
to depict mine own mind
in profound fuchsia and white.
Useth the colors yond thee would borrow
Thy palette not yet exsufflicate
Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow
in search of a shade so ******
Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet
at which hour thee paint mine own love
add a true broken blue shade
of the cloud and the rain above;
Study mine own dry sorrow
in mine own soul
useth any shade thee plaited
soften the edges of control
in a tinge of xanthene.
O Painter
Prithee paint me
Mine own passion and mine own spirit
shall has't a crimson r'd hint
mine own remorse and mine own regret
shall reflect an ink stain print
Paint me in mine own eye so true
O Painter
but add a dash of courage too*
~
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
7.6k
I Don't belong here.
In this castle built with lies
stranded at the tallest tower
with nowhere to run
and everywhere to hide
I don't belong here
in this house of plaited gold
looking grand and innocent
the mocking oxymoron, masking
the nightmare that lay behind
I don't belong here
in this forced dream of fancy
in this perfect american family
that choked me into a whisper
complete with silent feet
and empty words
I don't belong here
stuck behind a wooden door
I closed myself
locked from the outside
with bolts of judgement
that my cowardice
won’t allow me to break
I don't belong here
So I lean my back against the gold,
and the stone and the wood
shut my eyes as tight as I could
and fought the instinct of flight
then I wished and wished with all my might
to live in the rose colored cliche
and wake to a golden carriage
with a price knocking at my door
ready to whisk me away
because I don't belong here
I’ve never belonged here
standing in plaited gold.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 7:01 PM UTC
I did not believe,
standing on the bank of a river
which was wide and swift,
that I would cross
that bridge plaited from thin,
fragile reeds fastened with bast.
I walked delicately,
as a butterfly
and heavily
as an elephant,
I walked surely
as a dancer
and wavered like a blind man.
I did not believe that I would cross that bridge,
and now that I am standing
on the other side,
I do not believe I crossed it.
Apr 19, 2022
Apr 19, 2022 at 11:23 AM UTC
I rode the wings of night on rising air
That carried me from Africa's wild shore;
To fields of meadowsweet and maidenhair
To sing of heaven's dome and ocean's floor.
Spring greets my song with hawthorn flower and briar.
Rewards my voice with nectar-tinted sun;
The thrum of earth's renewal is my lyre
As thaws begin and waters speed to run.
I sing for memories of sultry days
For zebras racing over arid plains.
I sing of England's tepid Summer haze;
Slow-strolling shire horses with plaited manes.
From heaven's heights I sing, for life's divine,
The purest voice, the lightest heart is mine.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
NOTES:
Written on 22nd June 2003. I did some research about where the Willow Warbler goes on its "migration holidays" before writing this sonnet.
Sep 6, 2009
Sep 6, 2009 at 3:14 PM UTC
The stink of fish on earthen streets
A hot wind blows from ochre hills
Black faces shine with brilliant teeth
Street market ***** doth cure all ills.
Redness in her plaited hair
Rhythm in her steady tread
A harmony of balance, she carries
Water jars on her head.
A market girl is singing
As she sits among bananas
The drama in her music
Is as dusty as the street,
It fills the air with magic
As it lilts above street chatter
In the atmosphere of Africa
Where new and ancient meet.
The goat boy herds his docile flock
Through camel trains and bales
The steamer tethered at the dock
Announces that she sails
With billowed steam and mournful wail
It echoes through the town
And the planter and his agent
Bargain with a harried frown.
The bleating of the goat herd
And the stench of fish and dung
Is as ordinary as Africa
In the searing mid day sun.
Zanzibar is spices, Zanzibar is Stone.
Club Zanzibar is whiskey on the rocks
Consumed alone
Or shared upon the balcony
In the shadow of a palm
With the turquoise Indian ocean
Reaching out beyond the arm.
Do you see the dhows are sailing?
Do you see the fishing nets?
Do you hear the oarsmen chanting?
Did you see black muscle flex?
Have you watched the dripping sweat
Cascade on alabaster brow?
Have you inhaled the scent of Africa
And allowed it to allow?
Colobus monkeys in the treetops
Narrow lanes in the bazaar
Dull white walls adorn stone buildings
And the rupee is by far
The favorite tenure of the Island
Since the days when slaves were sold
By Arab camel caravaners
Who traded coin for young black gold.
East and west collide in concert
Africa and Asia blend
The Sultan's mix of race and spice
In Zanzibar, beyond lands end.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
3rd June 2008
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:06 PM UTC
Moody mornings
roughly plaited hair
still letting a few tresses
tickle my forehead
and touch my lips
only to make
my smile wider
These eyes see
more than what
the landscape holds
more than what is told
by the deceiving beings
of the deceiving earth.
It’s a beautiful lie
beneath the palpable skies
and the fathomable oceans.
So I’ll just lie
on this beach
in my blue slippers
and let the sand
fill the pores
of my flaxen skin
while the dolphin flipper.
It’s just a matter of time.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
I
I greeted you, my inevitable day
In this shaky firmness of my hands;
Assuring me of my weakness; the languidity of my serene constitution.
The sky smeared with fright,undeed, and look, hark to how the sun closed the night!
This was but unpalatable dew, misty in its impatient greyness
Avidity for genuine sorrow and late confessions
The calm heart then wronged, and soon the war touched the light!
II
Beware of love, o silly hearts!
Loving thoughts, are indeed averse to relenting;
albeit they are always leading to smirks and destitution.
Release thy grains from yon grievous chain!
Spark thy wings, heave and bend!
Wear thy glee, ere any of the gruesome tears remain!
Shield thy mask with greater abhorrence!
III
O notions, fruit my doom and feed my sight!
From womanly misery I yet ought to emerge
and all its surly sleeves I ought to blight!
IV
O peace, fetch for me my untaught breath in vain
Keep me steady, ditch me not in the rain!
Tend me more, yet not my cheerful friend-
in pleasures whom thrives, in virtues was whom foolish!
Praising plaited hairs, swept amidst folded skirts.
Gruesome lies they carry, the finest they conspire to marry;
what a horrid, unalterable, evil concoction!
Yet pureness is the only that deserves awe;
virgins are a symbol of unrequited love, but tenderest affection!
However lonesome, hither and thither I shall bear this pain
Until my stern heart melted to love again.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:38 AM UTC
Taffeta dress.
Pink bows and ribbons,
Plaited elegantly through her shiny hair.
Shoes made of crystal glass.
Azure eyes that allure.
Princes and spinsters.
All vying for love.
In ball gowns.
Feel the frowns.
The pauper descends.
Out of place, amid friends.
Pretences of sisters who whisper and moan.
Two sisters and mother that clamour the throne.
They're trying for love.
Met on the staircase.
We really don't really care case.
Sisters on ladders of heels,as they stagger .
Their mouths filthy as bladders and bowels.
Nasty creatures.
Vile in lust.
Lustful greed.
Maternal demon seed.
Stepmother, toxically crumbles to dust.
Crone godmother.
A quick sip of milk.
Cinderella my lovely became but a sylph.
Dispelled stepmother and daughter's that cussed.
Transport to the princes ball.
In a pumpkin, should maybe have been made into a sickly sweet pie.
Lizards as footmen, stood fast on the back on the coach pulled by white mice.
The creatures were shocked.
By the changes, all the rearrangements.
Built up with Cinderella before, a creature comfort kind of rapport.
Be back by midnight said the fairy godmother, she knew he'd really grow to love her.
Midnight came midnight went.
A glorious evening only lent.
She tripped on the stair,
Nobody cared, except the prince and cute cinders.
She lost her shoe, in a hurry to flee.
Prince himself picked it up, unable to believe in lady luck was meant to be.
He searched his dominions far and wide, just to find his princess bride.
All the best things found in fairy tales.
What do I find?
Just slugs and snails.
Yep, you guessed it I'm a bit of a cynic.
(c)Livvi MMCV
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
Alyra, remember that day?
That day at the park?
You were three, and I was eleven.
We went to the park with Daddy, Mummy, Molly, Arielle, Ella, Erin, and Pete.
Remember? You played on the playground with Ella and Arielle.
While Erin was teaching me to play basketball.
It was around August, so not too hot.
After we ate lunch, the big kids played touch footy while you went to the sandpit.
At the end is the day, when everyone was talking, you presented me with a big bunch of dandelions.
I told you and the girls to collect some more and I'll make jewelry with them?
You would take off that silly neckless for hours until it broke.
Then, I plaited flowers through your hair. You looked even more beautiful then you already are.
Just before sunset we danced and danced and danced.
That was the day you taught me 'Doggy Doggy'.
We watched the sunset - all of us.
You were sitting on my lap telling me about your day at kindy the day before.
Alyra, baby girl, try and remember.
Because one day, you won't be a baby girl anymore.
You'll just have memories.
That is why I hang on to them so hard. Because I never want to forget. And I never will. Not when it comes to you.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
When the night is cold
And the bed too big
I will take a moment
And recall...
Of your warm breath
And imagine how perfectly
The bed felt complete and warm.
When I walk down the street,
Wearing my favorite plaited dress
Or even my favorite cologne
I will recall...
How it felt to hold hands
Walk side to side
Laughing and smiling.
When I watch a movie
Curled up in my couch
I will recall...
How we did it together
Cuddled up like two kids
How i loved it!
When in pain
In need of a friend
I will recall...
How soft your shoulders were
How soothing your deep voice was
How easily you kissed my pain away.
When I take a walk
To enjoy the serenity of nature
I will recall....
Of the places we loved
The scenes we loved
And the things we did together.
And today, I heard our favorite song
Played it over and over
And I recalled...
How much we jumped and danced
To a million tunes
Your body close to mine
Our hearts entwined.
Then truth dawned on me
Now they are just memories
For fate has drawn us apart
And maybe,
That’s all they will remain to be
Memories in my mind.
(November 29, 2012 at 4:18pm)
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
The Harvest Bow
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
by Seamus Heaney
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
And liv'd upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.
Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
Her Sisters larchen trees--
Alone with her great family
She liv'd as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.
But every morn of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew
She wove, and she would sing.
And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
She met among the Bushes.
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere--
She died full long agone!
2.3k
The briny tears have dried
The sounding knells are stilled
The grieving crowd, dispersed
The parting pain, allayed
Benumbed lie the dead
Beneath the marble vaults
Bereft of power and prowess
Benighted and beaten.
The sun shall never cast its glorious rays
The stars shall never their brilliance shed
The breeze never shall bring tidings new
The showers shall no more drench them through
A thoughtful friend sometimes seen around
A fervent prayer at times chanted aloud
A plaited wreath, rarely laid over
A trite rite, randomly carried out
There’s none left to mourn or weep
Nor anyone to sing, sigh or sob
Leaving the dead to rot in the closure of graves
To life’s alluring charms, the dear depart.
Cold as clay the dead lie so still
To be feasted on by maggots and the worms
Life with all its glory – defunct
Its fever and fret too – extinct.
How in vain we run after wealth
The power and position we deem so great
Shall come to naught within Time’s gloomy vault
Yet we run and yet we straggle behind.
In vain ends our travail for might
Inglorious is our quest after fame
Transient turn the riches, we garner
Short lived is their gleam and glitter.
Oh Lord! Lead us not into illusory charms
Deliver us of our avarice to hoard
For all that is born and made
‘Must consign to death and come to dust.’
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 6:29 AM UTC
WHEN the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide;
When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay;
Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way
Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side,
The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream;
We will bend down and loosen our hair over you,
That it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy with dew,
Lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate dream.
2k
I want to lay with you
and let you see my soul,
that it can recognize you as mine.
I want you to hear it
so that you would know it in a darkness.
To taste it, that it would never fully be consumed.
To touch it,
as a million gentle whispers.
To smell it, as to let it become a part of you.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 1:14 AM UTC
We dropped by
in the VW bug
along the Malibu coast
for just one evening.
She wore green satin
and pukas,
had her dreads plaited neatly
& she lit candles
under the smiling moon.
We burned nag long
into the wee hours
& in the morning
we were gone
like her,
as beautiful as the surf.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
Strike the bells wantonly,
Tinkle ****** well;
Bring me wine, bring me flowers,
Ring the silver bell.
All my lamps burn scented oil,
Hung on laden orange-trees,
Whose shadowed foliage is the foil
To golden lamps and oranges.
Heap my golden plates with fruit,
Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe;
Strike the bells and breathe the pipe;
Shut out showers from summer hours;
Silence that complaining lute;
Shut out thinking, shut out pain,
From hours that cannot come again.
Strike the bells solemnly,
Ding **** deep:
My friend is passing to his bed,
Fast asleep;
There's plaited linen round his head,
While foremost go his feet,--
His feet that cannot carry him.
My feast's a show, my lights are dim;
Be still, your music is not sweet,--
There is no music more for him:
His lights are out, his feast is done;
His bowl that sparkled to the brim
Is drained, is broken, cannot hold;
My blood is chill, his blood is cold;
His death is full, and mine begun.
1.7k
We strode together in another age, my love,
You, in your earthen gown and beautiful dark tresses.
I, the wearer of the long plaited, thong and sinew sandal.
You and I, we strode through quiet valleys of tall conifer
Where huge rock falls left monolithic edifices... as monuments to past largess.
Together we walked as one, in a world much simpler than the one we live in now.
In a time, without the inhibition of contrivance or sophistication.
We walked in clarity and drank from clear, clean waters.
We dallied in the honeyed light of a huge, summer moon.
A field of dandy lions in the warm April sunshine, was the byre in which we made love and produced our babies.
A love ... un-harried, unhurried and devoid of any preoccupation other than that of the beautiful desire
We felt for each other.
The love we feel now is the same as the love shared then;
But in this age it is diluted and complicated by the urgencies and imperatives of the day.
Then there was just time...given and taken.
Without cost or penalty, without blame or insinuation, without hurt or harm.
Time in that better age...was a friend.
A friend who augmented the beauty of today into the promise of tomorrow,
A friend who exchanged the serenity of yesterday for the excitement of the new day’s dawn.
This was our time, when the bond of eternity sealed our commitment to each other.
For however many lifetimes we may live in...
We shall be one.
Marshalg
For darling Janet
12 September 2011
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
The sun shone bright
on the Saturday afternoon
as Helen put her doll
Battered Betty
on the bombsite rubble
off Arch Street
near the coal wharf
and sat down beside you
(crossed legged)
peering
at the bombed out ruin
of a nearby house
wonder what it felt like
being bombed?
she said
I mean
one minute
you’re trying to get
the kids to sleep
next minute
a ruddy great bomb
blasts you all
to Kingdom Come
you offered her
a sweet candy cigarette
from a blue and yellow packet
don’t know
you said
but my mum said
that when she was home
with my gran
during one bombing raid
they hid under
the kitchen table
with her baby niece Carol
Helen sat opened mouthed
her hand holding
the hand
of her battered doll
anyway
you went on
my mum’s stepfather
( her dad having died
from TB in 1936)
was under there too
but my mum said
he had his backside
sticking out
from under the table
as if
that was unbombable
Helen laughed
and so did you
bet it was horrible
to be bombed
she said
but I would have hated
being evacuated
from my mum
even for a day
she ******
on the sweet cigarette
held between two fingers
and stared
at the ruin
with half a roof
and two walls standing
revealing wallpaper
on the inside
of one wall
my gran said
you continued
an old couple
next to them
on hearing
the air raid siren
began to run
toward the bomb shelter
in the garden
when the old lady stopped
and the old man said
what you looking for?
my teeth she said
and he said
they’re dropping
ruddy bombs
not mince pies
Helen spluttered
into laughter
almost on choking
on the sweet cigarette
don’t
she said
I near wet myself then
and she clutched her doll
to her chest
patting its back
there there Betty
she said
it’s only a story
and you looked
at her small hand
tapping the doll’s back
the fingers tight together
love in each tap
a good mother
she’d make
you thought
with schoolboy love
looking at her profile
the thick lens
spectacles
the plaited hair
and her small hand
going tap tap
on the back
of the battered doll
in her flower skirted lap.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
Sweet and salted
Like you wanted
We watch in silence
We aren’t holding hands
You shiver lightly
Move right beside me
I feel your body heat
My heart skipped a beat
Your hand feeds
me metal
Your hand like a petal
I say I’m not hungry
You say it’s for your own good honey
You plaited my hair
I cut it like I wanted
You say I’m ruined
I feel you’re intruding
You throw the china
I feel it still
Popping candy
Medicine moonlight
I’m wearing white lies
Doll faces with red smiles
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
You were too long for the cot, the very first time I met you, I met your toes,
They were cute, and pink, and you had no idea how far you could go
So many steps, and so many years, they carried you so quickly
Your nose was so small, and I couldn't quite comprehend
How you could smell anything at all?
I stole it, I wiped it, you wrinkled it, and you cried on it
Had I known then, how hurried time would go
I'd remember much more, than your cute, tiny, pink toes
She came along so soon, you hadn't even spoke your name
And before a year had passed, ten toes, became twenty
You were too small for your hair, curled round your face like a mop
It was dark, and grew round your ears, way beyond your years, but
You grew into your hair, faster than I anticipated, and I couldn't quite comprehend,
How it had grown there at all?
I brushed it, I plaited it, you undone it, and you matted it
Had I known then, how hurried time would fly
I'd remember much more, than your hair brushed to one side
You both grew so fast, and I barely even noticed
While I was there you looked the same, then I came away
And, Oh, how things changed.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
were you born drinking the sky
like the oceans split at your toes
when the gulls called morning?
with sleep-sunk eyes
trapped between fingers
to watch the moon bleed through
a starburst on your jawbone
cut from kissing lightning
and threading daisies through park swings
did you sleep on the soft sands
seaweed plaited through your hair
when the water called you home?
we raised you on thunderstorms
and you brought us summer rain
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
Like magic,
it happens
in a snap
of the fingers
on the crossbow
of time
Like the sparkling arc
of destiny
on my tongue's
plaited river rhyme
like the journey
of the arrow
as it hits
its destined mark
like the lit-up flight
of the sparrow
despite
encroaching dark
like the wisp of a
flash of the jump
of the whale
in a deep blue sea
like my heart
upon airwaves
as your aura
sets me free
and within the holes
of the molecules
that reside in
the soul's abyss
my gentle eye lens
captures your
rolling tidal kiss
in sudden turn of storm
in unexpected rains
I find myself
in heaven's realm,
slicing through
my chains
I stand here wind-whipped
on mountain top
and range
and to you I beckon
in ferocious blooms
releasing all my rage
and slowly, unraveling
my layers
I burst forth
from my
cage
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 12:50 PM UTC
After school
Helen’s mother took you home to tea
and she was wheeling
the big pram along the pavement
with you on one side
and Helen on the other
and she said
hold onto the pram
while we cross the roads
I don’t want anything
to happen to you
and as you crossed
the busy roads
you kept glancing over
at Helen with her plaited hair
parted in the middle
and her thin wired glasses
and her raincoat
buttoned tight
against the wind
and her small hand
clutching the pram handle tightly
and beside you
Helen’s mother
short and stocky
pushing and puffing
and her eyes dark as night
and kind at the same time
and when you reached their home
and went inside
and she took off your coat
you went with Helen
into the sitting room
with a coal fire blazing
and the smell
of drying clothes
and past dinners
and Helen said
do you want to see my dolls
and the doll’s house
my daddy made
out of boxwood
with lights you can turn off and on?
sure ok
you said
and you followed her
into her bedroom
where her toys and dolls
were laid up along the wall
next to her bed
and she took up a doll
and held her out to you
and said
this is my favourite
this is Jenny
and you said
hi Jenny how you doing?
and Helen smiled
her slightly goofy smile
and you liked that
her smile
and her eyes large as duck eggs
behind the thick lens
and she handed the doll
to you to hold
and you held the doll
and kissed the head
and hugged it close
thinking glad the other boys
can’t see me now
here with this girl
and kissing and holding
the **** doll
out of some small boy love
and shyness
and you know
they’d laugh out loud
and point their tough boy fingers
and you’re glad
they aren’t there
just Helen
and her little girl love and kindness
against their rough ways
and small boy toughness.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 4:01 AM UTC