listen
just listen
no
try again
voice
don’t speak
understand
don’t know
decipher
don’t judge
steadfast
don’t rush
patience
a while longer
silence
just wait
hear
how can you
you do not
listen
creative writing
Don’t look now
I know. You thought
you’d got away with it.
World Poetry Day
and not a peep
from him.
Better luck
next year.
Fireside reflection one winter evening
I am sewing. I wonder whether it will
be of some comfort to know years hence.
The hours spent by the stove till
this record is shepherded towards present tense.
First a sweatshirt, then a blanket to pullover
the broadening shoulders by the fire side.
Each stitch a tie that pricks our regret over
a loosening grip; each badge a source of pride.
And tomorrow’s tomorrow, will they see
the same pangs or remain blind in slumber
– just as their forebears be –
until loss and longing fuels their hunger.
Frost pocket
A warmth upon my cheek
A light behind my eyelid
As I walk within my sleep
And wake beyond my twilight
Message
What is this dark foreboding?
A crescendo rising to crash our
very being.
And rest:
for once it has begun there is no respite
or repeal.
Run free
or do not run at all.
Climb from this descent.
Tip toe if you must
but charge
onward.
Build. Not a
wall but the means
to overthrow and dismantle
to forge anew;
challenge this brutal beauty
beholden to its past.
Scout Purple
“It’s not purple;
it’s Scout Purple,”
Really,
is it richer?
Deeper?
Does it have more
meaning?
Does it dutifully
denote our service?
Does it practically
parade
our promise,
our adherence;
a simple signifier
of our Scout values
collated and codified
into one
uniform
expression of colour?
the Scout Shop
assistant
continued,
“it is dis-
continued.”
Against the wall
it’s like banging your head against the wall
that would not fall
but you did
as you slid
trying to flee
all that would never be
all that would stop you from standing tall
it’s like banging your head against the wall
Dereliction and devotion
“You see,” I said
“I can’t write award winning poetry
and do housework.”
And at no point
did she turn to me and say,
“You can’t write award winning poetry.”
Karma suits you
an invite
a tentative knock at the door
tea and toast and tears
and all those things shared through the years
if I could I would love you more
less flexible now and yet
still we remain
intertwined
Day of the wren
No time for eloquence
to fall upon frustrated ears.
No Sanhedrin and no Saul,
the onlooker was but a call
away, shielded behind the safety
of the bloodied panic button.
A glutton for punishment
and conscription, was voluntary.
the jericho roads 