Month: September 2024
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The Fallen Bench
I saw itIn the park,LyingOn its backLikeAn old manSleepingOn the grass.PerhapsIt faintedIn the sunBecauseIts wooden ribsWere paleAnd warped-So wracked withTimeThey hardly fitThe painted frame.I remember it,Though,From better daysWhen I would shareMy eveningsIn its lap. I wonder,Did it finallyToppleOn its ownBeneathTired birdsSingingIn the treesAt the end ofDay,OrWas itThe silentVictimOf a needlessCrime:A senselessMuggingIn a parkGone grey? IDo…
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I am the best of them that speak this speech, were I but where ’tis spoken
It happened again! Every so often one arrives like a silent telegram in the night: a word. The first one I remember came to me about a year ago: anabaptists. But instead of the usual meaning of adults being baptized, in my dream it meant enslaved shipboard children… Then came tenebrous a few months later.…
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Sitting on a cloudy porch
SittingOn a cloudy porchI pressWhat wordsI still rememberAgainstMy skin, Although They no longer Keep meWarm;There is no sunNow… butI rememberThe tanThat used to wrapAround my faceIf I satToo longOutsideWith friends.I rememberWhenWe’d talkAnd laughTogether,Not on a screenButWatching each otherTrembleWhenA breezeChuckledIn our hair,And shadows,RealAnd solid,Chased us throughThe door.The worldWas filledWith dimensionsThen.NowIt flickersOn a phoneI dare notTouch,For fearOf…
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Ashes to Ashes
Is thereNothingMore?OnlyThe soft whisperingOf yearsSneaking pastOn slippered feetLeavingMemoriesFloatingBrieflyIn their wakeLike dust?Did I hopeFor moreWhenThe marchBegan?Should I haveGuessed?AndWhen I wasYoungIfI hadGatheredTimeAnd pressed itIn a little bookLike flowers,Would itStillHave crumbledIfI’d kept the pagesClosed?Would itHave lastedLongerHad INeverPeeked?Now,I only seeThe ashesOf a fireExtinguished.What childKnowsTo saveThe air?Where isThe PhoenixNow?
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I am the table
What is it about an organism that makes it a table setting for posterity, a book with no words, a classroom with no teacher? History is one thing; it has events, and usually documentary accounts and descriptions of its occurrence: a monument here, a written mention there. Evidence… But what about culture? How could the…
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I am the bouquet
As the daysFile pastLike old menLimping into church,I hopeMy forgivenessWill not moveAs slowly.I am beginningTo feel the rankI have beenAssigned:I am travellingAloneAnd yetNot by myself.In fact,I am gatheredLike flowers,And coloursI have not seenBeforeCaress my eyesAnd stroke my skin,Softly,Like my motherWhen I was young.I carry her giftOf petalsIn my my mind;I can neverReallyBeAlone.
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The Atlas
Ahh retirement, a time when it is impossible to escape your memories and yet difficult to believe they once had a life of their own… “Daddy, what’s a ‘stralyer’?” My daughter has a habit of coming up with sounds, part-words, and checking them out on me. “You mean trailer, don’t you sweetheart? It’s a thing…
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