James

James and I. Collage 2019

 

a day looms in the near future

laden with unknown fears

it is, or it could be, a turning point

a signal, a way point. Certainly it marks

a departure

of our red-haired son with his given name

into the company of other men

other souls who seek solace in extremity

who will bawl his name and push him

to limits we, his parents, never could, never would

and in those moments of strain

where God may not be found but God invoked

this boy, this man, our progeny

will know that our love will not desert him

in that liminal state he finds between his youth and his future

and will he know what I have learnt

that he is powerless, yet as a child of love

he carries us, our love, our future seeds

and he is goodness if he so chooses

A rising

A rising. Pic for poem

 

mist rising like silk

disturbed by a murmur

over cold water laid flat

by silence

before morning shakes it all

and voices breathe warmth

on words that float away

in the chill stillness that waits

to evaporate like a departing soul

with memories that whisper sweet nothings

to milky shadows and ghosts;

a coot calls and cuts the air

a heron struts impatient for the curtain to lift

and one more day is vague before

the mist unfurls

Offerings

Offerings

 

I know a little, not a lot

but I can lay words at your feet

and hope that you will let them in

nourish them and give them shape

in those long strides we take

in hope, in friendship and shared trust

so that in the fullness of time

we too may become united

in the soft transfer of a love that speaks

so quietly that if we travel in haste

we may damage it in the slipstream of self interest –

that selfish gene that threatens to deny

all the gifts we care to give

as if

Barbie dolls

 

 

they needed permission to be exuberant

repression and prejudice joyously exposed

flaunts publicly in the face of all that approbrium

and dances in the streets

of a capital city alive – stripped of the nods and winks

the brothers and sisters and in-betweeners

make a riot in plain sight

the anarchy of self evident truths

rituals and history unstitched to reveal

reality made to lurk in the mainstream

a marching band with glitter and horns

tattoos and stencils, face- paint and flamboyance

defiantly, brazenly, a baby suckling at a breast

the  parade polishing itself as it progresses

a serpent in a rainbow that pulses and says

look at me

a flexed, honed torso wearing only a gold posing pouch

and on his head a fan of barbie dolls

next to him a woman – the two of them – an exhibit

a romance in a cameo of the human race

everywhere the promise of a crescendo

and nowhere the commonplace

this then a reflection of everything we can ever hold dear

the many questions and troubled faiths conjoined

as if

My amour-plated heart

My amour-plated heart. pic

 

I am curious in a casual way

to enquire within

to knock at the door behind which

failed space and ruins lurk in shrouds

grief looms and guilt skitters not being quite

so apologetic

and if I were to enter in

would I trip and drown in tears spilt of love

lost in the commonwealth of desire sold short

the skirting boards and rough hewn timber prone

to splinter; a sea then, of waste and recrimination

and having entered in

would I seek solace in quiet things like thoughts or prayer

to unberth me from  the quay so that I could float

on principals and occupy untainted  air

to be a visitor, a welcome guest treading on the hearth

and be comfortable contained within the walls

and would I, so ensconced

be able to declare my love unflinchingly

offering up the dregs along with the spoons

and silverware; could I admit to all of it

and  suffer my lips to say- I love you?

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

After Mother’s Day

After Mother's Day. pic

 

in the quiet familiar room

fat, wet jewels sit on the glass above

like buddha’s  through which I see a grey monotony

 

this augurs ill for progress

as it shines reluctant light

on half formed plans

 

and silence clings at the contours

of the view from here

as the horizon yawns, mock idle, sucking me in

 

and there is so much to do

to overcome the apathy

and out-pace inertia

 

to dispel the dank encouragement

of dismal

and light the fuse

for new ambitions