Tuesday, 23 April 2013

An invitation to grieve

There is that moment in grief
when it clutches your breath
and you wonder how you will ever snatch life back,
how you are certain your lungs have forgotten how to draw
 then it snaps back like a cruel rubber band
the air returns
and all you want to do with that one precious breath
is wail
so all the world can hear
so everyone stands still for just one moment
so the clouds stop their constant sweeping of the sky
and the magpies quit their ceaseless conversations
you want to yell at ever passerby
The seeds of my kin have spilt on the earth
Cry with me
let our collection tears fall on fertile soil
so that new life may grow

Saturday, 20 April 2013

Monday, 15 April 2013

Friday, 5 April 2013

A Macabre Tale of the Bloodsucking Kind

She once had a dream  that she lay down in the river
In the midst of a moment where the air was so thick and hot
that the mountain fed waters offered the only breath of freshness.
She walked across rocks slippery with algae and
tossed with empty shells of long gone dragonflies -
like crusty ghosts of lovers - brief lives
metamorphosized in unknown skies.
She slid her body amongst their past - into a slow eddy, warmed and glistening.
She lay down in the river -still and long-
till leaches came and kissed her tired soul
with their slender hungry bodies
and sucked the sin out with her blood.
And then she rose
out of the waters and out of her sleep
Scrubbed her body - red and clean - in a shower scalding hot
Opened her windows to a rain soaked spring day
And dreamt that dream no more.

Wednesday, 3 April 2013


“What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning, but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.”
Edna St. Vincent Millay