Tears of abandonment in the eyes of a faithful companion my past has been part of someone else’s future; Ripening into a sailing stone inscribing long tracks without any physical intervention giving birth to geological phenomenonal types of rocks; Being the kind of man that is never poor, aiming for the shade and prescribed hugging!
On the (not so) Merry-Go-Round Dawn’s wake-up call a constant replay caught on a carousel, a March hare carnival, a nightmare because there’s no safety out there. Longing for days before a new normal ripped memory, slashed from olden days of childhood, turned a sunny life into a three-ring scramble for $ with roaming unmasked
I haunt myself with fragments embodying wonders of roads not taken not able to witness where they could have led aside from tracings in my eye gone once focused on in the pale blue din of thoughts intersecting with cross-sections of self here yet not really anywhere of consequence. Who would I be without you?
Sideways Talk I watched the sunlight slowly depart the room. Magically sucked from the room through a closed window. Darkness. Another day marked off. I was neither happy nor sad; mostly bored. They told me not to worry; they will take good care of you; you won’t be there long. The door to my room
I shut my eyes to brush through my memories for warmth and sunny beaches as a pair of red, shiny slippers shelters my feet. As the slippers clack, clack, clack, I wishfully whisper: “there’s no place like home; there’s no place like home; there’s no place like home.” But that won’t get me all the
Elegy To My Breastmilk Your milk will come once You birth Your baby. Prepare accordingly. Your baby needs to be cut from your womb – Prepare. Your nipples are large. Your baby is small. Your milk will come if you pump enough. Come breastmilk, come Make me Mother. My first Mother’s Milk – Golden Milk
Daddy, oh (for Lawrence Ferlinghetti) If your father is messing-inaction you look round for replacement but that’s your secret even you don’t know. Dad: a beaten conundrum, flaking goldfish that forsook water in favour of booze. Son – not reflective moon – alters course, makes tracks in deep space or sea, learning to navigate, searching
In the Grip of Dementia teased by crumbs of recognition like the maple tree on third and main she wends her way to the Legion Hall only to discover the building has been pulled out by the roots, a yellow taped cavity warns “keep out” she sulks back through the salient houses each turn a
We barely finish dinner of cauliflower and chickpea coconut curry, when you suggest we dash to the beach. The sky, like a southwestern painting of burnt orange and turquoise is obstructed by the stately maple tree in our back yard. Donning my fall jacket for the first time this year, I welcome the brisk, blustery