|
Welcome
Imprinted on the doormat
like a smile.
Come in -
feet, meet doormat.
Plumb line
First box of bricks,
all those wobbly towers,
getting the hang of how they stand.
First fight with the kid next door
over who could build highest,
blood in the cement.
Older, out and about with a hard hat
and a grand blue print for a citadel,
tallest landmark on the skyline
and your neighbour
has taken up flying demolition
as his trade.
Much more blood in the rubble.
Go to Top
Mother Earth
We gather at the edge of the labour ward
in fearful proximity to the main umbilical,
try to take in the devastation.
Tectonic contractions
forced the quake,
up-thrust of rock from the sea bed
broke the ocean’s membrane;
flooded our nurseries.
What science or faith can appease that cervix,
its immeasurable dilation.
We mark the deliveries on the seismological calendar,
wire her up to our early warning systems,
scan the horizon for the next due date,
hope for gentler cradling.
Go to Top
Funny bones
Always the comic;
stand-up, knock about lines
and the audience like them -
you don’t get any more bouquets
for emotional honesty.
Back stage, too many vases stand empty
but not the way I write it;
you can turn anything round with humour
even a child’s heartbreak –
seven, when I cracked
my first joke, black-edged
but it got their attention.
They said ‘you are a funny bones.’
Snap, snap, snap.
I’m a lop-sided clown,
nothing if not entertaining.
Go to Top
|
Bob the Builder
Three years old, at most,
he copies the adult commuters,
acts out the seriously fed up
and hard day at the office look,
sits stiff as a city suit
and quiet, reflects the almost funereal silence;
head bowed,
absorbed in an Evening Standard,
avoids eye contact with everyone else
apart from a quick glance up now and then
to check he’s reading the right script –
the only difference,
his Bob the Builder outfit and lunchbox
and he holds the paper upside down,
though seems to be making sense of it.
So touching, his performance
that one by one the adults catch on,
track back.
He leaves us with his ticket,
exits singing ‘Can we fix it.’
The collective response is almost audible.
Go to Top
Confession
Old skin gives our age away.
We make the surface over
to the plastic surgeon,
he cuts, lifts and stretches the truth
but even under anesthetic
the process looks torturous;
how deep the knife and needle has to go
to pin skin down.
Converts to the creaseless,
our faces admit nothing –
a tight shift of religion.
Go to Top
Cross my heart
I’m looking for love
but love isn’t looking for me –
Cupid gave up,
sent arrow after arrow.
They fell short.
I liked being a moving target,
gave hardly a thought
to the man on the other end.
I blamed Cupid’s aim,
thought it left a lot to desire.
I wore Cupid out of arrows –
they’ve all bedded in somewhere else
but there must be one left
worth standing still for.
Come on Cupid,
you can’t miss.
Go to Top
Windolene
Soft and pink.
“Soaks up the dirt a treat” mum said,
rubbing hard.
After the divorce
she took down all the curtains
and plastered the windows with the stuff
but no amount of rubbing shifted it.
Hard to see a way through;
mum and dad going for each other
like scouring pads and hammers.
The kids hanging onto the shammy leather.
Go to Top
Seize the day
Four am.
Awake and wondering why
World tries to go back to sleep,
then the pressure of a full bladder.
The edges are blurred
from last night’s hangover.
World takes a walk to clear its head,
wants to reconnect with its feet –
in the half-light, ice on the pavement glitters
and all the signs say ‘Which way?’
World hurries back indoors,
turns the TV on;
breakfast news reports famine.
There’s work ahead.
World pours another cup of tea,
lifts and drains it,
tries to turn off the alarm clock
but there it is again set
squat and irrefutable
on the mantelpiece.
Go to Top
|
