I am the news

I am the news. pic for poem

 

I am a sculpture

waiting upon reason, mercy and miracles

to mould me and make sense of each

passing moment that renders me as small

 

I am an echo

of nothing more than memories that slink

in the undergrowth of  my own propaganda

and threaten my neck with a sensual constriction

 

As spirits go

I am evaporating on the back of so many

disappointments

that a ghost would wail at the iniquity

of living in this entanglement

 

but I am immune

as a rogue infection to clinical intervention –

a bacteria so fit that healthy cells

emigrate to other hosts and leave me isolated

in my own member state

 

I am dilute

as my age dictates

that blood relatives die around me

and I take the calls of surviving kin

and enter in to their ‘arrangements’

 

I am the understudy

for my impending future, the heir apparent

to a ‘long wait’ that others may remark

was lived in haste and might in time improve

goodbye Michael

goodbye Michael. pic

 

her voice stretched by emptiness

she simply said;

” I thought you should know Michael passed away today”

he chose a Sunday to go into permanence

and leave his wife and family on the day of rest

today marks the Autumn Equinox, two equal halves of light and shade

one teardrop hangs and waits for gravity to be the judge

our parliament  in tatters, the country in turmoil

and as we read the news

one can’t help but feel that though his mind was in decline

he chose his moment well.

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

cold cuts

Colc cuts. pic

 

you vet my bile                                                       you see it coming

                                                                                because you are guilty

 

with taut phrases

learnt by rote and experience                                  you gloat and preen

                                                                                 with no false modesty

to put me down and deny

me of coherence

of a challenge                                                           in my naivety

 

Unfairly

you squirt corrosive phlegm

and here I am now, years hence

still smarting

still wiping with passionate indifference

at the hurt on my face

 

and those around me live

in their scar-tissue

and would intrude if they could

upon my own but I have made myself immune

as damaged DNA in an unravelling helix                 I never loved you

                                                                                   your last words

and of course I live on

with echoes and pain                                                 you win.

The Bridge

The Bridge. pic

 

a chasm exists between us

that spans so many lost years

so much neglect and all of it mirrored in his dark eyes

My first son, long lost, not yet found

sits at a table with me and we are so close

to fumbling over words and hurt

that we are like young  lovers

without power over the letters we seek to shape

into a definition of that sense of loss that is

a survivors guilt and the need to attribute blame

His dark, thirty year old eyes are lamps

that shine on the space that divides us

and they tell me that nothing I can say will do

so I hope as I hug him and say goodbye

that some things can be repaired