Tag Archives: peace

Lull

Lull
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

It is here
in these quiet moments
that we find it;
 

when we have nailed
hurricanes to the floor
and collected monsoons
in thimbles,
 

as we lay,
chests heaving,
in the debris-strewn dust,
 

waiting
for a subtle shift,
a tender tremor
that will lift us to our feet
 

and have us leaning
into the wind, learning
to trust the breeze
once more.
 
 

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While you were sleeping

 sleeping
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

I wrote this
while you were sleeping;
 

while your head imprinted
a vanilla linen memory
and the chintz eiderdown
rose and fell with the cadence
of your lungs,
 

while the fingers of my
left hand caressed
your open palm,
our warm legs tangling
between rumpled sheets,
 

while slumber
smoothed the furrows
of your day’s toil,
scattering the remnants
to the brisk March winds,
 

while my name tumbled sleepy
from your lips and the black dog
bayed at the waning moon,
knowing he would find
no quarter at our door.
 
 

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Symmetry, Linguistics and the Art of Surrender

Daisy Chain 2
 

Relinquishing the day,
I watch your tongue
chase vowels, curl
 

around consonants, your
lips spilling daisy chains
on my bare shoulders.
 

I tilt my head, mirroring
your movements, inhale
the faint creases around
 

your mouth, allowing
myself to unravel as
you unfold in a smile.
 
 

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Latitude


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Comfort creeps upon me
as I relocate garments;
unexpected stillness
settling on my hands
as I stuff ribboned socks
into drawers,
slip away new knickers,
fold cashmere sweaters
onto shelves.
 

Wrapover dresses
billow
in new spaces,
their delicate fabric
clinging
to extravagant
velveteen hangers,
thin shoulders
wreathed in relief.
 

Narrow apertures expand
to accommodate
shoes and boots
that had kicked
rebelliously
against the glass walls
of a vast walk-in wardrobe
 

and scarves,
caffled until now,
unravel;
soft bedfellows
languishing
with the hats and gloves.
 

Here
there is room for everything,
even the elusive raiment of hope.
 
 

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Strawberry Crush


 
 

We lull in hammocked hum of summer days,
cocooned within our hessian-tilted hush,
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 

Our skin soft-spun in gifted lithium rays,
hair honey-combed beneath Belenus’ brush,
we lull in hammocked hum of summer days.
 

Gold buttercupping chins in pollen haze,
our creamy cheeks full-fill with nascent blush,
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 

Oak blossom, broom and meadowsweet ablaze,
while grifting scents from freshly-cut grass crush
we lull in hammocked hum of summer days.
 

With eager lips we feast on juicy fraise,
tongues quenched as we devour vermilion rush,
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 

Suspended far above the ticking baize
and bathed in season’s smooth lutescent flush,
we lull in hammocked hum of summer days
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 
 

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Me and Billy ~ Conversations over Cutlery


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Tined forks taunt me from the drawer
as I scan spaces while scrambling eggs.
 

I cast aside papers full of yesterday’s events,
preferring instead to float between lines
++++++++++++++++++++++of Forgetfulness.
 

The black dog settles in her basket,
lulled by the scent of windowsill narcissi
wafting in on Eostre’s breath.
 

Though we no longer speak in spoons,
let us, just for today, sheathe our knives,
untangle our tongues and sit quietly together,
++++++++++++++++++++++enjoying our eggs.

 
 
 

~ Eostre is the Celtic goddess of rebirth, new beginnings and fertility and is seen as Spring personified.

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Petticoat


 

She slipped beneath me, lost it seemed, for days,
a torn and ragged wisp I failed to grasp,
that withered in the mottled mirror-gaze.
 

Caliginous dysfunctional malaise,
shushed-silent but for dusk’s death-rattle rasp,
she slipped beneath me, lost it seemed, for days.
 

Bewildered child within the laddered maze,
seduced by sorrow’s vile puissant asp
that slithered in the mottled mirror-gaze.
 

Entombed within the muddy-mettled greys,
enveloped by seclusion’s gutt’ral gasp,
she slipped beneath me, lost it seemed, for days.
 

‘Neath fractal glitter, hope returned rephrased,
deft-delicately held with hook and hasp,
soft-swithered in the mottled mirror-gaze,
 

her party dress – resplendent polonaise
and in her hand the proffered, beaded clasp.
Wraith-like beneath her, lost it seemed, for days;
I found myself within her mirrored gaze.
 
 
 

~ a polonaise is a woman’s dress with a tight bodice and an overskirt drawn back to reveal a colorful underskirt or petticoat

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Affinity


 

For M and for friendship
 
 

You broad-shoulder me to the beach,
pillow-creased and yawning,
our winter-beaten faces
upturned to the burn.
 

Lungs gather up the onshore Sou’westerly;
its briny tang caffling in our hair
as we skim ‘ducker’ stones
and watch the storm petrels scatter.
 

Noon finds us knee-deep
in the mud-silt sand,
elbow to elbow, giggling,
digging for clams.
 

Blistering afternoon slips slowly
down the cool throat of the sky
and as we trickle our way home
something resembling peace
hovers.
 
 

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A simple case of geometry

Columbus’s work in vain
as we circumvent the truth
and choose to fight in all four.

Romanticised scenes of Florence
and her lamp-lit ladies
turning starched cotton
in the rain-sodden Somme.

Apathy sprawls on modular furniture,
watching obscene flat-screens,
as they fold right-angled,
star-spangled flags;
God Save the Queen.

The same sad-fingered,
dog-eared telegrams,
seeking solace against
two adjacent edges
of a dusty drawer,
decade after decade.

The choice:
to remain in the dimly-lit
ninety degree spaces
we’ve backed ourselves into
or wade through the brackish gloom
and turn a kindled corner.

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Supplication

Pray to our gods that our children will shun
malignant malaise, militia’s cold might,
old shoulders aiming democracy’s gun.
 

Spider-climb lies that their leaders have spun;
pallid untruths that proclaim to unite.
Pray to our gods that our children will shun
 

slick manifestos, oiled speech over-run,
warmonger prophets that aim to incite,
old shoulders aiming democracy’s gun
 

warning our youth there’s a war to be won,
crimson ink spilt and the wrongs splintered right.
Pray to our gods that our children will shun
 

promised land, seeing the damage that’s done;
bleak arid wasteland devoid of all light,
old shoulders aiming democracy’s gun,
 

blood husks in trenches, bleached bones in the sun,
carcasses licked clean by bellicose blight.
Pray to our gods that our children will shun;
cold-shoulder weight of democracy’s gun.
 
 

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