Monthly Archives: August 2011

Between the Acts


 

Felt-lined pockets,
ragged now,
gravel-chafed
to fabric’s brim,
jagged stones,
concrete bones.
 

Weighted down
in daily dolor,
cloaked in
overcoat of grey,
slim fingers lift
each wretched rock,
release, discard
to well-trod path.
 

No sorrowed search,
no river drag,
solitary walk
into the water
to take
the first breath
not the last.

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Maggot

Where drugs have failed and sepsis seeps,
and rank dank odours congregate,
this black necrotic tissue sleeps
as saline soaked cells re-hydrate.
 

As lunch is served on rancid plate
the starving larvae swoop to feast,
their endless appetite to sate
upon the failing flesh deceased.
 

As healing fibroblasts released,
slow-growing healing chrondocytes,
no need for doctor, surgeon, priest
no place for sacramental rites.
 

How blessed with healers, life festooned,
as friends debride our festered wounds.
 
 
 

~ This piece is dedicated to my friend Joanne Morris. She is a senior podiatrist who has specialised in diabetes and wound healing. (She’s a choreographer in her spare time, a fellow tiny pirate and also happens to make a stonkingly good gin and tonic).
 

In her professional life, in extreme cases, she uses maggot therapy in wound healing. She saves limbs and lives on a regularly basis. As my closest friend she has tended to my emotional wounds and has saved my sanity on many occasions. Whilst a poem about maggots might not seem like a very fitting tribute to a friend, it makes a tiny attempt to show my admiration for the work that she does and offers my heartfelt thanks for being a kind and loyal friend.
 
 
 

~ This utilises the rhyme scheme of a Spenserian Sonnet – abab bcbc cdcd ee – but is written in iambic tetrameter as oppose to iambic pentameter.
 

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Laceration

Verdict; harsh, misinformed,
malignant. Words catapult cold
steel into neutral arena.
 

Deep cut gushes,
crimson-stained clothing
clinging to saline soaked torso.
 

Desecrated cwtch;
welcome mat dirt-trodden
by muddied judgement.
 

Wound weeps, fibroblasts
creep; crusty scab
protects delicate tissue
 

until finger of realisation
begins to pick –
injustice never heals.
 
 
 

~ cwtch (pronounced cutch) is a Welsh word which means hug but the literal meaning is a safe place, so if you give someone a cwtch you are giving them a safe place.
 

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chaste

lace lifts, reveals
midriff to taste,
chaste, yet somehow
pulses race,
encased
within the boundaries
placed
 

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Hammered

Though cumbersome,
the smooth warm wood grain
comforting in the palm.
 

An effort,
in this enervated state,
to lift swing thwack
hard enough
to crack.
 

The sharp stick
of silence
snaps.
 

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Lailatul Qadr

Rheumy-eyed, pitted
in the dirt, ignobility
a derelict companion.
 

Defeated, deflated defenders,
soldiers whose only fortune was
to fall on this twenty seventh night.
 

Astaghfar susserates
as those captured as enemies
are released without enmity.

 

~ Lailatul Qadr means the night of honour and dignity. It is one of the most important nights in the muslim calendar and is usually on the 27th night of Ramadan. The night is spent in prayer, one of the most important prayers, Astaghfar, being that of seeking forgiveness. In Libya a group of Gaddafi supporters were captured by the rebels but later released in honour of Lailatul Qadr. It was a symbolic gesture and hopefully one that will lay the groundwork for future peace and unity.

 

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Soaked


 

As sopping cotton clings to skin
and flashbacks dance in Autumn rain,
grown woman greets the child again.
 

Brown feet in puddles, splash and spin,
cold toe wriggles, girlish giggles,
slim arms outstretched to wicked grin.
 

It seems this one was never twain
as sopping cotton clings to skin.
 

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Heal ~ Triple Haiku


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

lunar-lit steel sea
recedes towards horizon –
black rock emerges
 

clean breaks don’t exist
brittle sticks splinter in two –
multiple fractures
 

rain persists for days
until clouds evaporate –
arched prism ascends
 

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Patient

Seconds stack up;
roll call soldiers
standing in line –
time,
to be ticked off
the list
 

tick
 

tick
 

tick
 

shuffling feet,
weighed down
by waiting,
worn down
by aching,
faking interest
 

tick
 

tick
 

tick
 

anticipating moment
conscription will cease,
de-mob,
release
finally
into peace
 

tick
 

tick
 

fucking tick
 

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Nude


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Comfort by Henry Ascencio whose wonderful work can be seen here
 

https://www.artifactsgallery.com/art.asp?!=A&ID=748
 
 

He can remove garments,
pare away
each delicate raiment
with clumsy thumbs.
Strip,
rip peel from pith,
reveal citrine flesh,
fresh,
beneath zest.

Lay skin bare
on pelt-strewn floor,
eye-linger thighs,
analyse
mellifluous curves,
let his gaze graze
each nookcrookcranny,

but he cannot see
the woman you saw,
her naked affirmation –
yours alone,
for she leaves
when he turns
his key in the door.

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