Poetry

I am in the process of compiling a collection of poetry for publication.

The poems below are a conceptual collection examining themes such as identity, nature and death. They have been arranged into a ‘poem train’  with each poem representing a journey from one theme to the next. After seven stops, at the final platform the train reaches its destination and terminates.

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One oh six train 

Small child

On the one oh six train

Pecking his apple like a vulture picks meat.

As we pull into the station a dying sparrow weeps,

Waters the pavement with coy crimson kisses.

I am the only one who sees him –

I am the only one who looks down.

 

 

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Journeys

There were fifteen
Different moles on your back –
I counted them all
At the time I thought there would always be
Nothing better to do.

I normally like coincidences
I make more of them than there is
Because patterns are beautiful
And humans are not
And I like to bridge the gap.

Five of your moles sit in a cluster on the
Left hand side:
They look like a square with a circle inside
Or
A fly in a pen.

I knew you for five years before I had the sense and opened my gates…
Swatted you away.

I bought an electrocuter
For my house.
All the dead flies
Piled up on the tray
Half cooked and I made muffins and teacakes to make the air a little sweeter
But it was a funeral parlour nonetheless.

Eight of your moles are scattered like dots on a map.
I would have run my fingers over each on your back  but you said you
Didn’t want that.
So I left them alone.
Except the tight embrace of -98
And a lukewarm kiss

Then in ’06
I saw you at the train station –
You didn’t have bags…
I could see that you were
Waiting  for something
That wasn’t a train.

The last two moles sit under your hair and
Nobody can really see them there- unless
You ball up your tresses
And expose the bare skin at the nape of your neck.

It was hot that day
So I passed you a hair tye…
Your hair was thinner than I ever remembered.

You looked me in the eyes
And you said:

‘Nobody has seen these in years’.

I ironed the wet creases under your lids
Because
Suddenly I understood your something.

No years later
There were no flies on the trays.
I had stopped baking.

I am not sure if those two events are
In any way interlinked.

But I watched you with your wires
And you grimaced as I kissed you
As I watched you fade away
And I hope that they are because
I don’t see any other way
To make this beautiful.

We have run out of moles but just within no years ago
You asked me:

“What is the best way to die?”

The answer is simple:
Not Alone.

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Die Before Noon

I think I’ll die before noon

In between the sheets of bright expectation

Before the children come home

And cry out their eyes,

Take a few hours to admire the garden –

The ambrosias are in bloom.

 

 

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The Real Weeds

A garden flower is nature’s weed

All neatly potted, brash,

Leering on the topsoil

Like some majestic lion

Under roaring rejection

At the lean thorns that were

Twining with the soil for  a hundred thousands years

‘Fore budded aliens burrowed in clay caskets

And sat on brown mountains, denounce

The billions of years twisting round the smooth spine of the fence

All the while that pretty stem

Patted and swaddled in clay –

That flower is the real weed

Come unannounced to stay.

 

 

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 A stranger

A stranger

Is just a man you need to share

A thousand and forty words with

Before he changes his name.

.

.

.

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Deed Poll

Deed Poll:

The antithesis of

A restful life…

Two words for lexical cleansing,

The parenthesis of identity.

Waiting in that pasty room

For metathesis

Cleaned the story from my name

But never the blood from my hands.

.

.

.

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There is Nothing, There is Everything

There is nothing you can hold in your hands

That has not been made from a billion, trillion molecules

Birthing and moving and dying until the very first moment of you.

 

Your ancestor is the Earth itself

And you will return to her gritty womb

In quiet slumber

Until you awake a greater beast.

 

 

 

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