Mother

Mother. pic

 

In the garden leaning against an old water tank

that we use to contain the roots of decorative bamboo

leans a wooden cross with a small brass plaque

which marks the fact of my Mother’s passing away

on the 26th of July 2014  “Wally” Much loved by all

It is my own last claim on my mother whose selfless love

was most evident for all the time I can remember

so there it is – like a lighthouse that radiates a soft lament

even as I grow old and speculate

on the dwindling circumference of my life

I feel it’s pulse. Her very own eulogy

and know in time my time will come

and I too may be a legend leaning

in a garden somewhere still thought of

in a beating heart

Looking for tense

looking for tense. pic

 

I sit on the fringes and think

that’s my problem

I try too hard

 

all the letters dance untamed

taunting me, as a Lion resists

it’s tamer

 

and in this circus of wills

under the dome and ropes

of a tent that exaggerates

 

each small loss of authority

until I am left spitting

uncouth fragments of the alphabet

 

at the mighty beast

I have imagined as a metaphor

in this ring of despair

a yard of earth

a yard of earth. pic

 

the buried thoughts lie there

extensions of the temporal world

it’s graven images and dogs bones, forever

begging to rest

 

where amen lies down

for the solitary preacher

wasting eternal penance

and breathing through the soil

remembering, always in remembrance

 

until all the midnight journeys and

changing worlds beyond the next

become sameness,  returned

to a life that is spoken

in chants

Kiki

Kiki

 

I take the dog out for a walk

though for her it’s an exercise

in reading the morning papers, sniffing out the headlines

and finding those hidden meanings

that  make her want to squat

and piss upon what passes for news

 

In the early stages she is simply intent

on the leader articles and local items

waiting until she has emptied her bowels

kicked back at the earth to cover her tracks

and swaggered off while I bag up the mess

before she goes on to the gossip and sport

 

We go on like this around the rugby pitches

and through a latch gate to a narrow path

that acts as a bridal way both of us navigate with different hopes;

hers that she will see a horse, a rabbit or squirrel to chase,

mine, that it will unravel  peacefully until we turn left

onto common ground and the relative safety of the park.

from a distance

from a distance. pic for poem

 

a never ending song sits with me

in moments of passing

shedding fractions that will never return

like an aurora in the window of my soul

whose evocations of impermanence

are hazy, as a memory lost

in the litany of moments I regard as treasures

buried deep in the recesses and shadows

of places where I have been

and so my past, a growing thing

is littered with the lost colonies

of fleeting fame

when I was king

harvesting bright experience

from the luxury of a lost responsibility

so far from home