Future Perfect

All the days of my life
stretched out before me
in octaves of highs and lows,
in black and white.
Oh but to ignite!
To light the touchpaper!
To set free the melody
on musical notes unseen,
not yet ordained.

I stand on the edge of time.
My stomach flips when I look down.
Don't have to think of it;
continually on the brink of it -
just drink it in!

Spin

Hamster wheel begins its descent from Monday to Friday,

weighted down by the pull of the mundane.

Work. Sleep. And work again.

Labouring, spinning...

Bottoms out Friday

...the moment fleeting then

cranking up slowly, cogs turning heavily

up through Saturday, higher through Sunday. Pause...

at the top.

The sweetest dread at Sunday, midnight.

Spinning stilled. A silent moment,

hushed with longing -

and a wish: to spin no more...

before 

plunging towards Monday,

wheel dragged down by its own weight.

Hamster reeling.

The Present

Late February night in London.
A silhouette of Everyman, glanced as on so many nights before.
But this time an image change. A new shape made out in the dusk:
head bowed to hand-held.
Oblivious to his surroundings, inwardly inhabiting a different space.
Everyman is everywhere but here and now.

"Just look up!" my heart shrieks.
This is the moment.
This is the place.

Quicksand

Emergent from the womb,
we take our first breath caked in plasma.
Ever after stuck in gloop.
Each step forward sucked back twice the distance -
our insistence to return to this placenta.

Always harking back.
Retreat to Past, the old familiar.
Even memories coloured black
won't loose these stultifying ties that bind,
this blinding by our choice of sick nostalgia.

Sands of time contaminated.
Flow clogged, coagulated.
Time stands still.

Mistaken Identity

Stage set in mind's eye.
Scenes from the past replayed,
some over and over.
Life performance captured on cerebral celluloid.
This loving labour of the brain
lying at the very heart of us.
Picture perfect: past, present,
future definition. Sense of self.

Or brain trickery:
scenes that never made the grade,
memories never made,
lying on the cutting room floor.
Events too mundane.
Details missed. A truth too painful.

Sexy Beast

You growl like a bear...
... I turn to honey

Patchouli

Waiting here on the doorstep,
looking for movement through frosted glass.
Familiar end to familiar day,
and every day the same.
Comfort in this well-worn suburban routine
for them - but not for this raging heart.


Mum reaches to open the door.
Distorted forms flit beneath glacial surface:
refractions - a story only half-told.


A heady rush as the aroma of another tells me: you're home!
Your heavy scent evokes adventures of a life exotically lived,
far away in London.
My heart races: your longed-for presence precious, lighting up this dull, stifling world, 
illuminating the route of my own escape.

Snarl

Idle Sunday morning chat.
Sweet talk in the bedroom,
gently swapping notes on future plans,
our hopes and dreams.

Then out of nowhere
a misplaced word sours the air.
A flash of anger -
we both lash out.

Mean words hit their targets hard,
then fall to the floor,
take root,
    grow tendrils.
        Creep round our ankles like trip wires,
trapping us again
- our downfall every time.

Choking foliage wraps around our bodies.
You and I entangled, snarled.
Suffocating, unable to move
until the green monster weakens its hold
and sets us briefly free.

A whisper falls from your tired lip:
'This place.
This place.  Again.'

The Year of the Dancer

Starting the year 
already half-emerged,

a return to bodily form

reviving past joys –

music, dancing, friendships,

...and seducing my 
long term silver mate.

This year will be sweeter still,

moving closer to the softer centre of my heart,

uncompromised by others,

by what they expect – or want 
from me.

But one more wish -
a resolution - 
to have time to waste,

to while away...

Thin Skin

Pin prick pierces the skin.
Ice cold touch of surgical steel
- and the burn, as it discharges its fevered load
into the streams of rage beneath the surface.

You in a white coat
administering the medicine I need.
Relief from symptoms of confidence.
With care, lowering the mercury of my self-esteem.

The Deep

July 2010

Our love begins in the sunshine –

tastes and smells of the beach.

Emotions run fast like white horses.

We’re surfing above The Deep.

Plunging beneath the surface -

underwater, an altered view.

We’re swimming: eyes open, love swelling.

Limbs like wings we soar in the blue.

***

Our love is like the ocean -

beautiful, fathomless, deep.

There are storms that leave us stranded, apart,

but hidden treasures restoring our hearts.

This is our love to keep.

***

With young ones, the storms come,

tossing sweet romance aside.

Stranded alone on an island strange.

No way back, so strong the tide.

[whisper] No way back, so strong the tide.

Tide turns.  We find ourselves coming round at the water’s edge. Dredged up.  Hurting.  Skin torn by barnacled reefs.  Blinking in the unfamiliar daylight we are lifeless cast-aways.  Limbs heavy as iron on the sand.  Can’t move, so flattened by the ocean’s rage.  Subdued, but at least alive. 

Waves lap at the sides of our bodies.

Current building – stronger – faster!

Pulling our weight away from the sand.

Dragging us back to the open water.

***

Our love is like the ocean -

beautiful, fathomless deep.

There are storms that leave us stranded, apart,

but hidden treasures restoring our hearts.

This is our love to keep.

***

We drop suddenly, further and deeper
down to the depths, The Deep.

Deep down here the creatures are strange,

where daylight is out of reach.

Long, tendrilled faces, pulsating light, 

perverse to the people above.

Gelatin-bodied. Transluscent. Weird. 

This low-oxygen love.

Can’t return to the surface.
Can't return to the shore.
Have to keep plunging deeper and deeper,

and further than ever before.

Further than ever before.

***

Our love is like the ocean -

beautiful, fathomless, deep.

There are storms that leave us stranded, apart,

but hidden treasures restoring our hearts.

But this is our love to keep.

Morning Broken

10 July 2010

Break of day.
Cellophane-wrapped then popped open.  Fresh!

My heart dances on the fragrant air.  

I meet a friend in the church garden.

Fourth beer of the day, and cigarettes foul her breath,

the stench of repeated disappointments.

But is that a flicker of her creative beauty still there?  Words in her notebook, stained with tears.

“You are taking away my soul

While I try to dig myself out of a hole.

The walls got thick and the ladder too short.

....   Now I’m back in the place with no desire”

Let me put my arms around you!  
Let's look together for hope among the garden shrubs.

Coolio the Amazing (my daughter) #2

May 2010

“Ev-er-y-one knows 
that when Phoebe says something

it’s full of wisdom”

(said casually, while doing homework)

Definition of a 12-year-old young woman’s healthy self-esteem.
and her reponse as I relate this back to her?:


“by the way, that’s a Haiku Mum”

Trevi Fountain at Day-Break

(The toss of a coin)

Morning fresh.

Heat not yet risen.

Gentle fragrances abound. Summer scents, hints only.

We retrace our steps to Trevi,

to return before the hoards and claim this as our own.

The fountain silent now.

Cascading stilled.

The city workers clean the pools.

Reclaim the coins tossed the night before.

Bagged up and given to the needy.

Eerie in this stillness. Beautiful.

You tossed a coin last night.

By a single twist of that cosmic coin,

we are the tourists

and they the needy.

Aunt Bette Laid to Rest

Written on the day of her funeral, 3 June 2010

To me you were beautiful. Exotic. Bright light.

Through a child’s eyes, you SPaRKLeD.

Your jewellery and laughter – musical sounds

as you danced........... toe-twinkled.

¥

Then realisation on coming of age:

The melancholy inside

my adorable, sherry-loving, drink-and-dialling, Aunt.

A million sad truths to hide.

¥

But my favourite memories are the never-ending tea,

the pot always topped up – you, Nelly and me.

The stories of dancing, Murray, Mum, Dad and you,

Twinkled-toed exuberance, in Spangled shoe.

¥

Now the angels embrace you, now you can be

the best that God ever made you to be.

For ever more. Rest. In. Peace.

The Beckoning Sea

An invitation from your True Love

(Let’s turn our staff issues into starfishes!)

June 2010

Come down to the sea my love,

Sunshine and salt will kiss your skin.

Come down to the sea my love,

See soft bleached colours of blue, gold, green.

Come down to the sea my love,

The shells will sigh on the shore.

I will feed you treats at the water’s edge.

Strawberries, chocolate and more.

Saltwater’s touch will tighten your skin.

You taste of the ocean deep.

I will kiss your brown skin and drink you in,

You’re silver, and mine to keep.

Come down to the sea my love,

Where the ocean green and blue

Will wash away our striving,

Revealing just me and you.

Coolio the Amazing (my daughter) #1

May 2010

From Phoebe, (although this turned out not to be a metaphor!)

in answer to the question “How’s school?”:

“I’m being attacked by pencils and pinched violently,

but I’m clinging on by my fingernails”!