poem: ricochet

i constant ricochet between

what you say and what you mean

what you fear and what you dream

what you hope,but strain to trust

for it is true –

you constant ricochet between them too

and that zig-zag has blurred your view

for the love that you feared lost

never did

abandon you

 

Oh if you could but trust,

this sickening bounce, at last

would stop.

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poem: beneath the apple tree

beneath the dappled beams of sun

that fall between the leaves of that old apple tree,

from which you picked forbidden fruit when young –

and kisses too, for love is bold

where lovers think that they must slip out silently –

you stand now a sturdy man for me to see

 

your frame fleshed out by lovers hands,

and tempered by the scars of grief, when rage stole more

than your belief, tho’ that too was undone;

the apples on that tree, still grow so sweet beneath the sun

no rage could sour that love that carries on.

 

and though you haven’t climbed the tree,

in all the years since he was gone –

those broughs are made more sturdy,

by those same years – soft blossom on the tips of those old boughs,

still bloom like tears;

and heralds fruit plucked by those with faith,

to reach for love made sweeter by the wait.

 

 

poem: inappropriate

how should i say it?

what words should i use,

to point to uncomfortable things that you do –

 

when you’re snippy cos you think that straight

folk

ain’t properly being acknowledged for what they do;

 

as if we should be grateful that you don’t complain too much

about that;

yes, how should i word that?

 

or when you’re reminded

that you’ve paid no mind

to disabled people –

(why, no! of course you never meant to be unkind).

 

or if we seem too much to mind

that you’ve given us some little time,

and that should be enough, no matter what

or who

gets left behind.

 

how would you have me say that

in a way that

does not

offend

you?

 

or should we recognise

that you offense

is a problem

too?

 

 

poem: the view from down here

if every time you closed a door, i whistled –

then i would whistle every day, if not each night;

and should i sing with every incidence of rudeness,

i would be singing 3 more hours – tho’ the singing won’t delight

 

if each time some person patronised or patted

upon on my head as though i might play fetch;

i swear i would be howling at the moon dear –

most nights’ till i pass out, or from it retch

 

were i to whoop with wild abandon, and excitement,

each time i find exclusion, i’d be whooping without pause –

and you’d look at me all peculiar and offended,

,for being some great drama queen, seeking overblown applause.

 

when silence is complicit with the order

(wherein this whole wrong self would be much better hid away).

i will howl, and stamp, and sing, and scream and whoop holy disorder

and if that makes you uncomfortable, the exit door is that way.

 

oh whoops, oh dear, and sorry if you thought me

respectable and sweet, or so demure –

i sing of a rude and glorious disorder,

my own italian job, that blows up bleeding doors.

poem: due consideration

 

there is a question you’ve asked me

and you’d like me to give it some thought

but – given the question you asked me –

i must offer this little note;

 

in order to answer a question,

information and facts are required –

and the former is really quite murky

and the latter in silence is mired

 

so whilst your dear hearts intention,

is always awfully good,

some practice of that intention,

would help to improve my mood.

 

action must match hearts intention

till then my own heart i defend

but waits to outflow its contention

that love will win out in the end.

 

poem: when you were only seven

we were kindred once

though we did not know how fragile

were the bonds that bound us then;

for you were only seven, and i was only ten,

 

and when we danced,

you would always spin too fast

and i would catch you then –

when you were only seven, and i was only ten

 

we built a castle and commanded

armies loyal to our cause

and we sang to knock the clouds across the heavens  –

when i was ten, and you were only seven

 

and fast you ran, to scare the fiery dragons

far away –  then you’d wish them back.

that fast again we’d play, but then –

you were only seven, and you would not be again

 

the years advanced upon our armies,

wiping them away – and though it broke your heart

i never heard you say, but you kept a peace and offered it to heaven

that somewhere, you would be forever seven

 

and heaven has you now, and tho its too far to see

the destroyers of  our armies could not take thee from me –

and one day we’ll play together once again.

like we did when you were seven, and i was ten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

poem: exclusion

you do not notice it

– or there were times, perhaps, where you once did,

that with every slamming door

the meaning of my smile misplaced in you belief that you could

shut it again,

and again more;

 

when all my smile meant to convey

that whilst understood,

the slamming of the door was not something that was good

for me;

 

i am no saint and will not for this hurt apologise –

love forgives, and weeps those who weep

that clearer be the vision,

when love patient stoops to dry the eye

 

exclusion makes its scars, this flesh cannot but remark,

tho’ wish i often it would speak in quieter tone;

you hear it,

yet i am left unheard.

poem: you never hid it well

 

you never hid it well;

and though disguised to some,

loves eyes beheld thee in thy whole, and saw the scars

though seeing in them love as well

– for even your disguise revealed

that which fear led to concealing.

 

and spoke it in your mother tongue,

through weft and weave

of things begun,

by poets verse and lovers kindred song

– and seeds of scattered wisdom

that no disguise could keep from giving

 

though storms are not yet calmed,

in caves of rest this love

still brings sweet balm,

for knowing of thee now, and now as then

– yet knowing thee still more

for giving now, forgiven then

poem: the wisdom of the bard

 

the bard was wise methinks,

when sayeth he that ’tis not love,

that doth exclude admittance of

that which is feared, would push all loving from it’s gaze;

indeed – what thou fear most would not impede,

my meagre loving of yourself, with none of thee left on some shelf,

to be ignored, or left alone to dry and dust-clad days;

 so my love i say again – and happy to –

tho’ my poor pen

must stand in sted of arms which will amen,

to loving all of thee,

yes, all of thee, still now as then.