In God's breath he waits,
the candle dimming as the
clock ticks and hours are slate,
his heart's echoes losing the war

As his hands bridge the abyss
of his fate while his mind
catches faith's miss;
fortune has a length to climb

With the strength of string
and no true grip
or able grasp to ring
the tower bell of Heaven's kinship-

And to his back tied this pail,
of needed pride sinking him
to the depths of Jonah's whale,
unable to release the whim

Of something delegated to sin;
the inability to call to the power
and make true his acceptance of Him,
even as the shadows of his final hour

Creep upon his flesh-worn frame,
burdened with the punnet of age,
no fruit able to let him know youth's flame
nor his frailty an answer to sage

Wisdom that has been boast
to descend upon those of change,
with answers that are host
to those within death's range.

I am from my mama's toes,
as my dad
walked out the back screen door day after day,
its rusted hinge screeching.
A reminder of the torrential rain of argument
falling on my little head

I am from pine trees
of sap and sticky sweet
and the seed ticks. Climbing to the top
checking your neighbor for where they’re hiding later
I am from a southerly wind blowing
the smells of an unkempt garden as flowers grow tall
and strong, while families fall apart like the suffocating weeds next to the roses

I am from the strong arms of 5 different oaks
holding me up like my father was supposed to
the branches of those who tried to fill
the pothole covered road
in my heart, but never could.

I am from my brother’s teachings,
and long walks in a warm rain
always ending too fast.
The sword fights with a long haired bohemian
who stole my heart in a flash of lighting
that I took back with a parrying blow

Smoked filled rooms
as I pretend to be someone else,
and learned of life in a binary universe
trippin on my spear as I fight through life

Forbidden to get dull
Less I lose the fight
My brother’s disappointment; ringing in my ears

I’m from the struggle of believing
in not believing.
My life, proving to be the site of one’s parents,
setting out Christmas
as they realize Santa isn’t real

I’m from a humble beginning
and an arrogant pride
that has given me freedom
to go where those haven’t dreamed

I am from the life I have chosen
to make for myself
I am from Punnet squares
in the back of class
sitting next to a friend

Wanting to know what my kids look like
ff they’ll be as good as I hope
like my mama dreams

I’m from rain on a leaky tin roof
putting me to sleep
making false peace

I am from the water
that rushes through my veins
as I break through the walls
and join in another world, of fish and muddy water

I am from escapes to Neverland
in the moments were I remember
I’m a kid and you’re a kid
and I laugh because I don’t always have to grow up

From my mom’s lemon pie
I hail
like the sugary sweet stickiness
and the ****
pucker you lips boys
lemon.
and the fried chicken

From a stove that hasn’t seen
the fanciest meats
but left us with a five star feast
at my parents hands

I miss when I came from
a smoke filled house
detectors going off
fat back and grilled cheese
burning in the pan.

I like to think
I am from a world
and all I learn
all that made me grow

I am from distinct beginnings
as my life separated
but I have but one
means to an end

I am from a fire place
and screaming wood beetles
as we pressed their backs
but that’s a happier time
that I know I’m from
but can’t remember
I was too young

Now I am from a firepit
Tall
as our conversations
our father singing drunken tales
too beautiful to believe
to fantastical to forget
sparks flying at each crakle
like fairies of fire
cascading in the air

But also from his wrath
the anger
nights spent in a room crying
wishing I could leave
clinging on only because I had yet to learn
I didn’t need him.

So I came from silence
between me and him
longer than forever
louder than the Nazgual
screeching out at us through the TV
a movie my father and I shared, so we could pretend a little longer.

I am from sneaking out a window
not to leave
but return
to when me and you got along
the asphalt
raking out hands
while we climbed to the top
that frightfully tall roof.

the stars leaning in to catching our fall.
the forbidden bottle passed between us.
the world looking like a nicer place
until we crawled back in the doors of reality

From the tear, resting on the edge of these words,
as I recalled your laugh
the real one
the music of it.
cried because I have not yet heard it
someone stole it from your soul.

Maybe freedom can bring it back,
or only further burry it
were the mad men buried it.

I was taught to live
as though not else mattered
the autonomy offering freedom
but still cling to what we had, for however long
our childhood
not as great.
grown up too fast.

Queen Mab holds my origins too
as does Fantasia
and Disney.

Eargon and Sapheria
swords of blue flame
holding my attention
locked away in my mind
as I watched their adventures
and others go by.

A House of Leaves
containing confuzzeld wonderment.
my brother making me challenge
what literary told me was possible
enjoying the complexity
and escape

I am from the Moulin Rouge
the green fairy of absinthe
with same
long haired bohemian
sitting next me, holding my hand

I came from a Secret History
bunny, laying flat in the snow
Dionysus holding the blame
the Greek world with bigger secrets
6 people of a strained friendship

I am from a radio
and an Ipod
the CD player and TV
music being my soul

Ambient, Pop, Grunge
House, Rock, Jazz, Classical
Blue Grass, Country, Electronica
A multitude of noise, dying to a lullaby

Headphones
soft n’ squishy
pressed tight to the drum
drown out the world I beg
they comply
my fingers moving along the click wheel
for a new assault
cilia fibers dying off
you know the world I am from
we shared it often times
and yet you are shut out
the world of 2 sisters
roads walked together.
but I am not from you side of the street.

I am from a dirt road
made long ago
that you will sometimes wonder on to.
but run back
to the smooth and familiar
Pavement.

Today is the first day of Spring,
a significant moment when we shift into
a different rhythm of sleep and wakefulness.
When the dark turns back on itself
like thick rind peeled from a fruit
to reveal its golden glow.

That warm feeling returns,
not just superficially - much deeper.
Time has chance to saunter - people do too.
They find a moment to talk with each other-
too hot to rush off to wherever it is they're going.

**

Queueing in the supermarket requires patience.
People casually chat at the checkout
exchanging snippets of gossip as though
they've not spoken to a soul all winter.

Patiently I wait in line at the rapid-serve
with my punnet of strawberries,
their tempting fragrance filling my nostrils.

For a moment I am elsewhere-
in a sunlit field, hovering over row on row
of undulating furrows, where shy fruit
hides under spread leaves-
the ones that got away you might say.

Abruptly, my distant view's obscured
by an unfamiliar voice:

You are English-yes?

I had been studying his back,
muffled in a woolly facade of Tweed.
For him, it was still Winter.

Ah - An English rose - yes!

He tells me how I resemble his wife
and how she adored strawberries.

(simultaneously he waves over his shoulder
to somewhere in the past)

He says he will never forget her,
that once you stop remembering,
eighty years of life becomes meaningless.

A warmness spreads between us
like the weight of a cello concerto.
A kind of sad happiness.

Later in the day, under the almond tree,
I **** on season's first fruit.
My tongue curls around a mouthful of
forgotten language.
I am not disappointed.
It is impossible to believe how good it tastes-
like life sometimes,
when strangers offer a few kind words,
filling the days with sweetness-
the Summer coming.

Thoughts Meandering.

Thoughts meandering,
On a river of subconscious verse.
A motion for a notion,
Of unfulfilled liaisons,
Between memory and fact.
Too many meanings,
The poets curse,
Has seen me slip behind.
And litany’s and melodies,
Play havoc with my mind.
A punnet for a sonnet,
A play about a priest.
A painting to believe in,
Of believers at a feast.
Thoughts meandering,
On a stream of unwritten rhyme.
There’s a island in the future,
Where I may garner some relief.
If only I can bridge the gap,
Between fantasy and belief.

Positive thoughts are packaged with depressing discouraging chants in a plastic punnet.
I don’t know how to cope with that...
So to satisfy the thirst of my ever dangling drought of accomplishment,
I jam the thoughts in a blender on top speed.
Wait for the deafening swirl of the blades to stop,
And I lap up the monotonously foul “you are going no where’s”
With the chewy chunks of “you got out of bed, welldone’s”,
Slump back into a rotting pine chair,
And I glide through the emptiness.

Waves, braids. Dig deeper into the punnet squares. Certify your cells. "what are you mixed girl". "Tell me yo daddy is black".
I'm sorry, I'm just a white girl with nice hair. It's not all that, I'm not all that. It's not a weave, or something I've sowed into. I didn't buy into, my genes. They bought into me.

My father is saying nothing.
I know it, he knows it, and it is here,
the inevitable farewell but not quite.

I have told myself I am ready for this.

That I shall not be wrenching Bombay Bad Boys
from the shelves of an alien Tesco
to gorge on while On The Road remains unread.

That I shall not be downing shots of lurid liquid
with friends whose names do not yet exist
in warm bars where the toilets are pockmarked with sick.

I have assured him, and my mother,
and the punnet of mates I’ve accrued
this will not be my life circa one month from now.

The luggage has somehow trebled,
the back seat obese with a calamity of items,
an unboxed IKEA lampshade, unused cups from home.

In a second, a pat on the back,
a proud of you son, perhaps, isn’t that what Dads say?
He will worry, but mustn’t.

I think of my mother peering out the living room window.
Her eyes are flustered with tears.
The car seems to have stopped talking. I open the door.

I will post you my name.
I’ve been meaning to.
That way I can stain you

like blackberries would,
a fresh, juicy punnet of them
bought that very day,

your lips stippled violet
and the single syllable you read
the dizzy sprint of sugar.

Early awake for a day at Bala. The sky comes dark along side wise texts from friends.

Regarding discrimination and lack of inclusion in this country still. Folk do not seem aware of the impact of their words.

The cat came in early and back out after food.

Yesterday I missed the dog intensely after all this time. I half expected to see her at the door.

I am watching the news slightly while I write.

How many bikes have you? I enjoy that the Amish man exclaimed at your shopping bike. I exclaim often while others judge me for that, maybe. I exclaim over planes and trains a lot.

It looks like rain. I shall only take a jacket as I go by bus, as it is a free ride now and so pleasant and complete.

I shall buy a bed sheet from the charity
for the big table at the home studio, it will feel righteous.

Such a lot of strawberries. They used to be sold here per punnet, small wooden basklets which were useful after for all sorts.

I shall look at mine later and eat a few under the sky. The wild words.

I best go to the bus now. The school bus comes first, then mine and I hope it is a double decker.

Strawberries really are
from another planet
arriving from a nearby star
in their little punnet

A big dollop of fresh cream
splashed down the next day
from a nightime sparkling stream
called the milky way

Deep from space they both arrived
and our senses swirled
with a taste that's still described
as out of this world