A spiteful sceptical poem without punctuation lest punctuation is just another cause

 

 

imagine the spread of forests that could still stand

imagine the branches that may have waved

the leaves that could have unfurled

in a wind that wandered without a hurry

to get wherever it is the wind goes

 

and the lead left

in the ground unground

unsharpened unspoken

 

if we let loose the reins of pretence

that protests change the world

we have created that horse has bolted

runs now of its own accord

little heeds our words songs or signs

 

instead truth to tell we need to surrender

our power our money or desire

stop the purchase across counters

littered with the blood of women

the bones of slaves the ears

teeth and smiles of native children

to make shirts and shoes

lest catwalks grow sad and unused

 

after all this time

the rich have more wealth

the powerful more power

regardless of all the words

that coddle

and let us pretend anything has changed

Planned obsolescence:

 

I

From the beginning it is planned

that end

the futility to pretend

the refrigerator will last into the next decade

the television will beam pictures out

until the sun eventually switches off

the act of drying hair with the hairdryer

brings the little puff of smoke ever closer.

 

Intelligent design by factories

who know the side to butter their bread

is not the long-lasting strength of year

into new year,

rather they harbour the bright and shiny exit

once the designated warranty is buried

under dust and receipts in the drawer

beside a sadly degrading computer.

 

II

Father is dead now

these past thirty years

my brothers and I have grey beards,

there is the slightest shake in the fingers

of my sister’s hand that once held mine

as she walked me across the street,

mother forgets I called yesterday

and  I have grown

past that little boy of six with children

she cannot remember

and a wife she forgets each phone call

that she has met.

 

III

old Nelson is gone

his heart beat until the pain

was too much to bear

his blind eyes through his ears

followed my movements about the house

he only rose

to find the food bowl and sometimes

if luck chose my side

to ask to piss outside.

 

I miss the sound of his feet

plucking sound down the corridor

the feel of his small head

resting on my lap;

 

I have a picture of him

painted by my friend, it shocks me to think

Kevin has been gone 5 years.

 

 

riverwalks:

 

 

the shadows weave in and out of light

steal twigs and leaves

have ripples as echoes of fish thoughts

the footprints of insects

given over to mundane contemplation of food

and shelter

 

understands the best way to avoid the rain

is to be water

accept each drop as a gift, swell

with pride, roar with stories

and carry the load

to all aspects of life

 

banks for security

contain their own ripples

stay still, move occasionally

paint offerings

glimpses into light

and movement

 

heard in the sad lament

rocks stuck within make

as water washes away dreams

takes all edges

and curbs them into a sameness

of direction.

mother had kelp for hair

that flowed behind

in ringlets of finger-points

directing eyes to this stairwell

that corner even beneath the bed

in the ark

where the ocean waited

as patiently as winter sap

 

mother floated into my dreams

wearing hessian denials

toenails scrapping the heart’s walls

drawing a chorus of could-be’s

to paint the floor

footprints glowing into the gaps

between her eyelids

 

she is still alive

living somewhere out beyond the atolls

salt-crusted

eyes searching horizons

for mushrooms and lightning strikes

 

in my boat of suits and shirts

I search for her

untangling ties that strangle

and a briefcase with teeth

as sharp as a river’s edge

Screamlines:

 

 

 

There is no dreaming

only a turning around

ahead awaits the white wall of shock

where truth and facts

hang corded beliefs out to dry –

 

Oh it all comes back

this way, time is not a linear progression

but a spiral up and down;

 

in ancient caves people sat

spoke in whispers about cities so large

the world was devoured, placed their hands

in coloured earth made wet with spit and piss

marked the walls

a warning to all who follow

all who precede

beware the clocks of civilisation

they can never be sated but must

as all monsters know

grow and grow and grow

until all explodes into a desert

or flood.

 

Doves drop brittle twigs

hoping to build a forest

to hide the world from view.

 

 

he believed he was a rabbit:

 

Sat in the middle of the playground
on haunches
his sandals full of marbles
lifted from games while thumbs and eyes
focused on the twirls of colour
in spherical glass stories

teachers told him
to stand as other children did
empty his pockets of food
he harboured – nibbled carrots
and celery reminded him of the dentures
singing in a watered glass
beside his grandfather’s bed.

He remembers the sound of the old man’s chest
an ocean that lifted and plunged
into words he barely understood
before it fell still, left behind a storm
that never broke and a smell
he was not able to wash away.

Sadness grew around him
in tufts of sweet grass ready for him to chew
while others played football or chasey
he hunched low, nibbled his bottom lip
with his two front teeth
rubbed imaginary twin ears
with hands clubbed
to resemble paws

waited
for his mother’s voice to call him
into boyhood again.

Every day at three thirty
he raced to her car
the sound of children’s voices filling him – tears
falling with an absence of sound
into the whirlpool of tomorrows.

the art of rolling stones:

The stones inside were small,

jagged

cut discord into words,

gestures and the lust that followed;

a shadow, a wolf, a breeze

sickly sweet, a touch too warm

for sleep.

 

The stones inside grew

smoothed

sought peace in words

art and an acceptance

that found laps, rested, purred, a breeze

tangy; scent of lemon myrtle

for dreams.

 

The stones rest upon eyelids,

draw the curtains

place the feet on a stool,

words a drool; the fool

now understands life’s a breeze

that whispers truth

behind loud footsteps.