Wednesday, 22 June 2016

The irony of that little stone




He was an ugly child
brute was the word used
taunted by other children
until he learned to use his fists
better than words for him
he had no words
his thick tongue and fat lips better
for taking punches than for
forming sounds to express
thoughts that did fill his thick skull
but never ventured forth.

He discovered his hands could be clubs
legs like tree trunks
as each moment he grew (and shrunk too)
taller than the house so that his mother and father
bade him leave
too large for the village who threw stones
as he fled (and we will return to the irony in that)
until he found his way
into the army
and from the front, ugly still, but enormous
he led.

He was not as a leader
but as the battering ram
resplendent in armor designed not to protect
but to highlight his strength
the symbol of might
the fearful banner
and leading he was felled by a single stone
fired from such a distance
his massive legs
and mighty hands
had no effect.

As he lay on the ground,
his last thoughts passing
while his giant heart thumped to conclusion
was of all the stones
flung
and how swiftly he grew
so that the hands of his mother withdrew
and he found the memory of his father’s eyes
as they stared at him filled with fear
always the fear, a stone destined to collide.

Moses and the burning bush: (an edit)


aged now I sit
the withered bush beside me
in the wind
crinkles as if on fire

a young maid came by and by
sat beside me
knowing her I said hello aghast
she turned and fled

I realized she had been a stranger
except the wind
the sun
the sound of the bush beside me
clouded my mind
made me think of another maid
with whom once I did sit
speaking

her hand resting near her right thigh
my hand resting near my left thigh
did touch
little finger to little finger

my heart burst

I have carried that flame
through the years
the way the tallest mountain
bears ice all year round
the ice captures all sunlight
imprints the mind
with hope
joy for things that may never be

only coming into an old age
do we accept that vision
bear no ill will to what has and has not
happened along the way

Monday, 20 June 2016

Moses and the burning bush



Aged now I sit here
the withered bush beside me
in the wind
crinkles as if on fire

and a young maid came by and by
and sat beside me
knowing her I said hello
aghast she turned and fled

I realized then she had been a stranger
except the wind
the sun and the sound
of the bush beside me
clouded my mind and made me think
of another maid with whom once I did sit
and we spoke
and her hand resting near her right thigh
and my hand resting near my left thigh
did touch
little finger to little finger
and my heart burst
and I have carried that flame
through the years — the way the tallest mountain
carries ice all year round
and the ice catches all sunlight
and imprints the mind
with hope
and joy
for things that may never be

and only when we come into an old age
do we accept that vision
and bear no ill will to what has and has not
happened along the way.

Friday, 17 June 2016

Cain and Able



Oh brother...

For jealousy?

Was mother’s hand not as gentle,
Father’s eye not so constant?

For greed
or resentment — and resentment of what, my fondness
for following wherever you tread?

Was the ground beneath your feet
a taunt?

The sky above your head, a gift
denied?

For gain
or to protect?

Did the rain whisper into the canals of your ear?
Did the air sweep clear thoughts away in the wind?

And sunshine, what of that?
Remember when we lay on the sand, our eyes
shaded by hands, our eyes trying to fathom
the blue beneath the blue?

Oh brother...

Here I lie
a ditch now home,
my blood seeping like red ants across the ground
and I feel my heart
stumbling towards silence.

My thoughts
are filled with moments of you

for I never saw the violence coming
until after it had arrived
and the way your eyes turned hard as stone
shocked me...

and so brother, oh brother,
here I lie
and there you go
your shadow passing across my face
like a distant thought…

I remember as a babe
I held your finger and never thought to let go
not knowing
you always wished to.

Thursday, 16 June 2016

Dear est Jericho:



You stood, the door
open
behind you
my eyes                       shocked           at the the light
as it                 pours               in
like burnished sound from a trumpet’s polished mouth

and the walls came crashing down
walls once solid now liquid
terrible waves                         carrying           a terrible                     fate
the world is not
what only moments before
it was perceived to be…

the blood                     draining                       to my fear,
ears pealing                appealing
when the mouth would not               stubborn mouth          perched
like a contented cat
upon the destruction of all formed before,
the heart         a horde            of         wildebeest
running in every                                                          direction
crashing into themselves
then running off again…

and I                                        sat
in the post-laminated kitchen                        beyond repair,
my hands calmly folded in my           flaccid             lap,
the tea still     steaming         before me
in its chipped, favorite cup
and                                          around
the home came          tumbling         down.

and the walls come crashing down
walls once solid now liquid
terrible waves                         carrying           a terrible                     fate
the world is not
what only moments before
it was perceived to be…

I remember reading somewhere —
or perhaps       I           made   this      up
to         defeat
that detonation as cold          and as loud
as any arctic blast —

In         the middle      of the tempest
dwells             the solitude                 of despair
none    can see,          none    that look
and none         that care, especially not         those that       once                did.